The Flying Northman: An Event Horizon Special
by Spartan-168-Django
Summary: Winter is coming to Westeros, and this year, someone in House Stark will be receiving a very special gift. So ladies and gentlemen, please climb aboard and fasten your seat-belts, for this year, the Event Horizon series' Holiday Special takes you on a ride with The Flying Northman!
1. The Iron Horse

**_Foreword:_** _this story is a one-off spin-off to the **Event Horizon: Storm Of Magic** series, a reading of which is recommended in order to understand the world in which this story is set. But in brief: in the future, humans from Earth have found a way to travel to Westeros and several other fantasy worlds. Book 1 "Autumn's Frontier" covers specifically the events on Westeros, while Book 2 and 3 cover events on other worlds. This story is a "Christmas Special" (which doesn't actually have anything to do with Christmas except for snow and someone getting a toy train as a present, you'll see) set in Westeros after the events of Book 1. Read on, enjoy, and Merry Christmas and Happy New Year everyone!_

 _ **Disclaimer:**_ _the Event Horizon series is a non-commercial series based on parody and satire, and so qualifies as "Fair Use"._

* * *

 _ **The Flying Northman:**_ _ **An Event Horizon Christmas Special**_

 **Part I**

Summer was now long past, and although it would probably be at least a year or so before winter proper had arrived, the North was already beginning to feel the pinch. Another light snow had covered the landscape last night, and the day had been brisk and overcast as The Young Wolf had made his way to the colony that morning. Like his brothers and sisters of the pack, he was very much a child of summer; he could barely remember the last winter.

At that moment, however, his attention was focused not on the climate, but on the enormous monster that stood in front of him, a behemoth of steel, hissing and belching black smoke and white steam everywhere. Its body was largely cylindrical in shape, resting upon three pairs of enormous wheels, each even taller than Robb himself, with two pairs of smaller wheels in front, and a third pair of smaller wheels behind. There was a box-shaped cabin at the rear, where this beast's handlers would sit, and behind them, a smaller steel box sat upon a further four pairs of wheels. The beast's metallic body was painted in a rich livery of polished black, but with vibrant red-painted wheels and lining. Several appendages, including a bell, protruded from the top of the contraption's cylindrical body, like scales running down a dragon's back, and had been cast in shining brass. Painted upon the flank of this living, breathing beast, in tall golden lettering, was the name:

 **No. 1 THE FLYING NORTHMAN**

"Impressive, isn't it, Lord Stark?" beamed Lord Daniel Zimmerman, a hint of pride in his voice.

Robb said nothing as he stood there on the new platform of the new 'Autumn's Frontier Station', but nodded in agreement. He knew as much as Lord Daniel did that this machine was far from the most intricate and powerful that the Sky-People were capable of constructing, but all the same, the impact it left upon seeing it up close for the first time was not to be discounted.

"This, Lord Stark," began one of the Sky-People accompanying him, one by the name of Nigel Pegler, "is one of the latest babies to come out of our new 'Imperial Locomotive Works' over in The Empire. The design is an original one created by us, but based heavily on some imaginary lovechild of the legendary London & North Eastern Railway LNER Gresley Class-A3 locomotive _Flying Scotsman_ , and the newer LNER Peppercorn Class-A1 _Tornado_ , along with a lot of improvements we made in design, materials, efficiency, and electronics too. This, Lord Stark, is the centerpiece of the new 'Autumn-Winter Railway'."

Robb had read and heard much about these fabled 'railways' of the Sky-People, but to have actually seen one come to the North was another thing entirely. Over the last week, there had been a great commotion as a new machine (one the Sky-People had named "Isambard", after a famous railway builder of theirs) had carefully lain two thin strips of steel across the entire distance from Autumn's Frontier, right up to Winter Town. Meanwhile, further works had transpired within Winter Town, where Mayor Mollen had organized the laborers to help build a new platform and station. Only Robb and a few others understood just what the railway meant, but the work nonetheless had drawn large crowds of curious onlookers, and it was not long before the word had spread out across the North like wildfire. Indeed, the crowd now gathered here at Autumn's Frontier was an eclectic mix of the Sky-People and their colonists, as well as the colony's workers, and Robb's own family and other guests and dignitaries from Winterfell.

Of course, the coming of the railway to the North had not pleased everyone.

His own Lord Father had been hostile to the idea of bringing yet another of those Sky-People's "black-smoke breathing machines" to Winterfell. But at this moment, his Lord Father was down south in the capital, reluctantly summoned there at King Stannis Baratheon's personal request, and when he was not here, Robb was the rightful Lord Of Winterfell, Lord Paramount and Warden Of The North ... and _First Lord Director of Industry_ too (a title, he confessed, he had made up for himself). And it was thus in this capacity that he had authorized and commissioned the construction of what would be a first not only for the North, but for the Realm as a whole.

Behind it, "The Flying Northman" was attached to eight large wagons, each about sixty or seventy foot in length. The first three were the so-called 'passenger coaches', and they most certainly looked like enormous versions of horse-drawn carriages that would have put even the luxurious wheelhouse of the disgraced and exiled former Queen Cersei to shame. The next four wagons were all 'flatbed cars', that were all loaded up with various goods and wares produced here at the Sky-People's colony that were to be taken over to Winter Town, and fastened down with lengths of chain. The final wagon was a 'caboose', which looked like a smaller version of the passenger coaches, and would house a small crew of workmen and guards. And like the locomotive, the coaches and freight cars were all painted in the same black-and-red livery...

"Lord Zimmerman, Lord Pegler," began Robb, "it is incredible, but I was also curious about the choice of color..."

"Certainly, Lord Stark," replied Daniel, "the black and red paint is the standard livery that all of our rolling stock is using at the moment. It's the cheapest and most abundant chemical paint we can spare in sufficient quantities at the moment. In any case, our entire product line was optimized with Emperor Karl Franz in mind as our primary customer, and they agreed that the black-and-red paint job suited The Empire Of Man more than any other color scheme we could produce for the same price. It definitely suits them far more than pink, that's for sure."

"I see. No, I was just curious, that is all," mumbled Robb.

"Mr. Stark, I'll put it this way," pressed Nigel Pegler, "one of Earth's greatest and most legendary heroes of all time was the great industrialist Henry Ford, who invented the idea of the assembly line, and once said: 'you can have any color you want, as long as its black'. Welcome to the industrial era, Mr. Stark." Nigel winked, and then glanced at his watch. "Hmmm, gentlemen, if you could please take your seats. Quickly now, we're running on a schedule."

Nigel then pulled a silver whistle from his pocket, and blew it. _**TWEEEEEEEEET**_. That certainly caught the attention of everyone gathered there. "THE TRAIN WILL BE DEPARTING IN TWO MINUTES!" he shouted, "ALL PASSENGERS AND CREW TO YOUR ASSIGNED SEATING! QUICKLY PLEASE! THANK YOU."

At Lord Pegler's behest, Robb followed Daniel through the doors and into the first carriage. All the while, Daniel continued to explain: "the two Second-class coaches can seat up to 60 passengers each, with two bathrooms too. Their interiors are a little flat and bland; second-class emphasizes practicality and efficiency over style. But this is the First-class coach, with seven compartments each, each with six seats. In theory, that should mean a total of 42 passengers, but in practice, we end up using one of the cabins for housing support staff, like a second crew for changing shifts, or else armed guards."

"Armed guards?" inquired Robb.

"Our railways are an investment, Mr. Stark," answered Nigel, following close behind them, "and The Company™ _always_ protects its investments. Especially over in The Empire, each of our trains always carries two platoons of guards, including at least two machine gun teams, as well as a team of workmen and laborers to repair any track damaged by marauding Beastmen, Orcs, Skaven, et cetera. Here, I believe this is your cabin."

Before Robb could inquire any further into these so-called "Beastmen, Orcs, Skaven, et cetera", he was briskly shown into one of the first class compartments. Within, he found the rest of his family all sitting and waiting for him. Lady Catelyn and little Rickon sat on one side, Sansa and Arya on the other. On the floor sat Lady and Shaggydog; both of them sat up and barked excitedly when Robb entered with Grey Wind following close behind him. It was a tough time for the House of Stark, with Lord Eddard still down south on special business with the King, and Brandon still away on a distant world, slowly healing and regaining his ability to walk. But the Starks of Winterfell had endured over the ages, and Robb secretly hoped that this journey would be a sign of greater things to come. He smiled and took his seat.

"ALL ABOARD!" boomed the voice of Nigel Pegler from outside the compartment.

Out on the platform, workmen hustled and shouted. The last door banged. The guard shone his green light. The Flying Northman was ready to go.

 ** _CHOOOOOOOOOOOO-CHOOOOOOOOOOO!_** blasted the whistle. **_DING-DING! DING-DING!_** rang the bell. The engine's enormous wheels and the steel rods connecting them screeched and screamed; the wagons shuddered and groaned. And then, the entire train began to move – slowly at first, but noticeably faster with each passing second.

At once, there was a great cheer that broke out from amongst all the people gathered on the platform, and from those inside the carriages. The Flying Northman was off on its first adventure.

"HURRAH!" cried Arya as she too joined in them, standing on her seat to peer out of the open window (much to the disapproval and concern of her mother and sister too, though Robb had to admire his plucky little sister's spirit and support for the Sky-People). The direwolves too lent their voices too to the clamor, with Shaggydog getting up to stick his great head out of the open window to howl whilst his master jumped up and down on his seat in excitement and open defiance of his mother's attempts to calm him down. Lady and Grey Wind were considerably better behaved.

 ** _CHUFF ... CHUFF ... CHUFF ... CHUFF ..._** heaved the engine, breathing heavily and quickening its pace with each passing second. **_TROK-TRIK TROK-TRIK_** sang the wagons as they clattered along the rails right behind it.

The train glided down the track, and passed right through the new gatehouse that demarcated the entrance to the colony of Autumn's Frontier. The White Wolf guards manning the outpost there were smiling and waving to the passengers as the train stormed through the open gates. Robb couldn't help but be reminded of his brother Jon (well, actually his cousin, but that made little difference – to him, Jon would always be his brother). Unfortunately, Jon could not be here today; he was out somewhere Beyond The Wall at that moment, on an important mission for The Company™...

The whistle blasted again, and the wintry landscape outside began to blur as the train gathered speed. And yet, the ride was remarkably smooth and completely unlike riding a horse, or even on one of those "Wild Cat" vehicles of the Sky-People. Even his mother Lady Catelyn seemed to finally calm down and actually be enjoying herself (although that was probably just as much due to Rickon having finally tired himself out). The train steamed onwards.

Within a few minutes, the door slid open, and into the compartment entered two people: the first was Lord Daniel himself, and the second was one of the kitchen girls, carrying a silver tray laden with several piping hot porcelain cups, and a plate of freshly baked chocolate pastries, still warm from the ovens of the kitchens of Autumn's Frontier. Daniel smiled. "We'll be serving tea and coffee and snacks on the regular service too, but nothing quite as fancy as today's inaugural journey. Enjoy!"

"Thank you, Lord Zimmerman," spoke Lady Catelyn, respectfully, as the beverages and refreshments were passed around, with Rickon immediately snatching a not-insignificant portion of all the chocolate cookies for himself. Catelyn shot a look of disapproval at the boy, but quickly turned back to address their host.

"The pleasure is ours," replied Daniel.

"By the way, how is Lord Kovacs and Lady Vaenya?" asked Arya.

"They're well, thanks for asking," answered Daniel, "suffice to say, L-Three is a pretty different world than this one. But I think you would definitely enjoy visiting there one day. I'll let Fred know you asked about them. Hmmm ... ah, before I forget, Lord Robb, your presence is requested up front."

Robb knew that for all of the wonder and excitement gracing this auspicious day, there was still important business to be conducted, so he excused himself and got up and followed Daniel. Grey Wind too got up and followed close behind his master, wondering just who was it that Daniel wanted them to meet...

 ** _To be continued in part II..._**


	2. The Dragon's Bite

**Continued from Part I...  
**  
In the compartment in front of them, Robb found Lord Wyman Manderly seated there by the window; the old man of White Harbor seemed to be giddy like a child, having the time of his life as he watched the forests outside speeding past. Next to him was seated Lord Mayor Daryl Mollen, looking rather smart and well-kept in his new clothes he had styled off of the Sky-People, including his 'top hat'. Seated across from them were three of the Sky-People: Lord Nigel Peglar, Lady Sarah Carson, and Lord Daniel's assistant, Lady Kelsey Trevino. All of these passengers stood up respectfully as Robb and Daniel entered.

"Marvelous creature, this _really useful engine_ of yours!" bawled the stout Lord Manderly, "if only Wylis were here too." Wendel Manderly had been one of the lords to return North with Robb; he and Wylla were seated in one of the other First-class compartments, along with the rest of the Mollens, but Wylis was still down south with Ned, at the behest of King Stannis.

"Thank you," replied Lord Pegler, "the original _Flying_ _Scotsman_ (which I am very proud to say is still around today thanks to the preservation efforts of my great-great-great-grandfather, Sir Alan Pegler) became the first steam engine in the world to top 100 miles/hour (160 kilometers/hour). Thanks to various improvements we've made in the design, the _Northman_ can make up to 130, but for safety reasons, we are keeping it capped at 50. Our rails are graded for high-speed trains, but the railway is still a new phenomenon here on this planet, and you never know when someone might wander onto the rails, not knowing what they are. By traveling much slower, we at least give them more time to hopefully see or hear the train and get off the tracks in time."

"Still, 50 miles in an hour and all while pulling more goods than two thousand horses? Fantastic," remarked Lord Manderly.

"Indeed, thank you," said Lady Kelsey. She then raised the wineglass she was holding. "I suppose now would be the best time to offer a toast. To the Autumn-Winter Railway! May this official inauguration serve as the beginning of greater things to come." Everyone followed suit and raised their drinks up in commemoration of this historic event. Of course, the celebration was short-lived, as soon it was time to sit back down and get to business.

"As agreed, The Company™ shall split all revenue from all passenger and cargo fares fifty-fifty with the government of Winterfell," spoke Sarah as she reached into her briefcase to present several papers to the others, "we'll build the infrastructure, provide capital, technical expertise, and training, and pay for all operating costs. All y'all need to provide is the land rights, manual labor, and at least two battalions of the First Army Of The North each calendar year to be assigned exclusively to the railway for the duration of that year, to provide for its protection. That, and The Company™ will also retain ninety percent of all revenue from any merchandise, t-shirts, model train-sets, etc. based on the Autumn-Winter Railway that may or may not be marketed on Earth while Winterfell will retain ten percent royalties. This contract will be effective for the next two years, or until a new contract is negotiated, and it'll cover all railroads built in that time."

"And," insisted Lord Daryl Mollen, "if King Stannis Baratheon agrees to push ahead with _The Kingsline_ , the Autumn-Winter Railway will manage those segments under the territorial jurisdiction of the Kingdoms Of The North and Riverlands," he paused slightly before continuing, "as well as those of the Crownlands as well."

"Yes, we were getting to that part," replied Kelsey, "don't worry, it'll be far easier to work with a native entity who may be somewhat experienced in railway operations by then, than to train a fresh one from scratch. Mr. Pegler, perhaps you could also tell our noble guests here about some of our longterm plans."

"Certainly," replied Nigel, "our longterm plan is to link all of our colonies on this continent with hyper-speed _VacTrain™_ maglev lines. But of course those cost a fortune to build and require special materials, construction techniques, and expertise that won't be available on this world for quite some time to come. For the time being, we are settling on constructing conventional rail, since, as you've seen, our Type-9 _Isambard Kingdom Brunel_ -class machine can lay up to 20 miles of track per day on a prepared surface. Now, electric trains require either the accompanying infrastructure (like power stations and transmission lines) to be built, or else high-capacity batteries that require the mining of special minerals. And diesel-powered locomotives are out of the question for now until we can begin developing the North's oil and gas reserves. That's why we've settled on coal-powered steam engines for now, since coal is pretty abundant here in the North and easy to acquire with enough cheap manual labor. That, and we figured that steam trains have a special sentimental, touristic appeal value, even to a technological civilization like ours (as you saw, most of our paying passengers today are our own colonists). And also, for some reason, UNESCO ruled that steam trains are 'more culturally and aesthetically sensitive' for less developed worlds than diesel or electric trains – which makes no sense to me because steam trains are probably even more alien to Westerosi society than diesel or electric trains would be to, say, Victorian Britain. Then again, it's probably something to do with the fact that steam engines seem to have more soul than diesel or electric ones, more Fëa so they say."

" _Fëa?_ " inquired Daryl Mollen.

"Yeah," replied Nigel, "Director Teller and Cheong, our representatives over on that world, are in negotiations with King Elassar right now for the construction of the 'Gondor-Arnor Reunification Railway', and one of them Elves came out and said that steam engines 'have more Fëa than diesels' or something to that effect. I know, it was a pretty random and totally out-of-the-blue statement."

"Uh ... right," said Robb, a little confused by all of this. He turned to look out the window, as the forests of the Wolfswood zipped past. White steam continued billowing out above them, accompanied by the rhythmic _chuff chuff chuff_ from the engine in front of them, and the occasional scream of the whistle.

"But, as far as our more immediate plans are concerned," spoke up Kelsey, "we are already going to commence work on the line to Deepwood Motte next week, which will hopefully speed up transfer of the labor and materials we will need to build our new seaport facility there. Lord Robbett Glover has requested, and we have agreed, that this new line will be named in honor of the memory of the late Lord Galbart Glover."

Robb agreed. It still saddened him greatly to remember Lord Galbart and the Greatjon and Lord Rickard and all of his other brothers-in-arms who had given their lives for the North back at the Battle Of Red Fork. Deep down, he knew that one day many years from now, tales would be told of the great triumph of the steel and resolve of the North over the gold and arrogance of the Westerlands; of the devastation that modern shot and shell had wrought upon the armies of Tywin Lannister, and thus ushered in a terrifying new era of warfare for all of Westeros. Between Red Fork and all of the subsequent battles since, it was clear that "modernity" was the victor, even if the rest of the Realm were still in denial, or else looked upon the Sky-People with fear or suspicion. But Robb himself had seen first-hand both the horrors and the wonders that these foreigners were capable of, and had decided to take it upon himself to follow their example and reform the North into a "modern" nation, strong and free.

"... and thus to conclude," said Daniel, "because we would need to bridge the White Knife River at several points, the extension of the line to White Harbor may take a little while longer. The other issue is that because it would be a longer journey, probably an overnight one, we would need additional infrastructure built at White Harbor, and additional personnel hired and trained to staff them. Right now, as you have seen, our railhead at Winter Town is a pretty basic one, with just the platform, the station-house, coal depot, water crane, and a wye and run-around loop for reversing the locomotive in the opposite direction for the journey back. That is the bare minimum necessary. Extending the line out to White Harbor would require the same, as well as additional structures built there and along the way as well to support the longer journey. All in all, it would take at least a few months to extend the line to White Harbor. But the good news is that it will still probably get done before King Stan decides if he wants The Kingsline built or not!"

Robb decided to politely excuse himself from the others, and to see how the rest of the passengers and guests were faring on this auspicious day. He left the compartment, and headed back down the corridor, Grey Wind dutifully bounding close behind him. In the third First-class compartment was seated Wendel and Wylla Manderly, along with Daryl Mollen's wife Aelyzabeth, and their children Petyr and Wanda; the children too seemed to be enjoying themselves thoroughly, gawking at the landscape rushing past, such was the wonder of this exquisite new mode of transportation.

In the fourth compartment, Robb found Lord Ramsay Snow there (here today representing the Dreadfort, whilst his lord father was down in the capital with Ned and the King), along with young Lord Cley Cerwyn and his mother Lady Jonelle, and Lord Smalljon Umber and two of his many brothers. Robb greeted his guests and took a minute to praise the contributions that Dreadfort, Cerwyn, and Last Hearth were all making towards the rise of a new Northern state ... and, Robb admitted it, one he hoped would some day be an independent one, free from the shackles of the corruption and tyranny of the Southrons.

True, his father may have been a firm adherent to Stannis' right to the Iron Throne, but Robb himself harbored no such inclinations. 'Twas the dragons that his great ancestor King Torrhen Stark had bent the knee to, and now the Last Dragon belonged to the Sky-People. Stannis had no more right to claim the North than that exiled bastard-born-of-incest Joffrey, or that deceased drunkard Robert. And while he was genuinely thankful to Stannis and that Red Woman of his for having saved Sansa from the clutches of Lord Baelish, at the same time, he did not believe that one should confuse gratitude for a single action with socio-political beliefs as to the fate of the entire North.

On top of that, on the few occasions he had met the King and his Red Woman while he had been down south, Robb had found something peculiar and fundamentally wrong about them. He could not quite place it, but he trusted Grey Wind's intuition, and if the direwolf didn't like them, then Robb decided that he did not like them either. For now, his Lord Father was at the King's side, hoping to rebuild the Realm after the devastation of the war, prepare for winter, and also hopefully provide Stannis with a voice other than that of the Red Woman's to listen to. But Robb could not help but feel that perhaps one day not too far from now, the North may one day find itself at war yet again...  
 _  
No, stop it_ , he scolded himself. He tried and pushed these potentially treasonous thoughts to the back of his mind, and pressed onwards to the next compartment. He slid open the door, and there he found Engineers Niall Donnelly and Kelly Adams seated, along with Lady Dacey Mormont, that Dothraki girl named Irri, and finally sitting by the window, gazing out into the passing landscape, sat the young lady of House Targaryen.

"My lord," said Dacey, bowing her head as he entered.

"Lord Stark!" piped up Niall, "so what d'ya think? Y'know, Kelly n' I designed this track!"

"Scotty here is just exaggerating," laughed Kelly, "we just supervised the process; we had one of our A.I.'s do all the heavy work for us."

"Regardless, it is good to see you both, Ser Donnelly, Lady Adams," said Robb, cheerfully, "you must be very proud of having been part of this project." He then addressed the other passengers seated there.

"Lord Stark," spoke Daenerys, as she slowly turned away from the window to face him, and Robb could now see that she was cradling a young babe in her arms, wrapped in swaddling clothes. She continued: "it is a pleasure to be here, thank you for the invitation. Lady Mormont was just telling us about the proud and noble history of House Mormont of Bear Island. I ... understand what Ser Jorah did to have been exiled from the Realm, but you must know that he faithfully served and protected Viserys and I for all those months we were out on the Dothraki Sea, and it is thanks to him that Irri and I ever made it out of Vaes Dothrak alive at all."

Dacey said nothing, but smiled and nodded curtly; it gave Robb some small measure of relief that at the very least, the Last Dragon seemed to be getting along well so far with the rest of House Mormont. Robb was worried that his pardoning of Ser Jorah at Lord Kovacs' behest might earn him some scorn from that noble and ancient family, which is why he had been clear with Kovacs that succession to Bear Island would remain with Lady Dacey and could not revert back to Ser Jorah. But for what it was worth, the old Bear Knight had since found employment with The Company™, and last Robb had heard, he had been part of the expedition heading north of The Wall with Jon. Perhaps he was heading north hoping to be reunited and reconciled with this father, Lord Commander Jeor Mormont of the Night's Watch, and if so, then Robb truly wished him all the best with that...

"Come, sit down!" offered Kelly, beckoning Robb towards the one empty seat in the compartment, "join us; it's been a while since we last saw you."

Robb thanked her, and took a seat, and turned his attention towards Daenerys' infant daughter. She was a healthy young babe, only a few months old by now, but already with jet black hair, copper skin, and a mouth full of teeth. Two tiny violet eyes stared back at Robb. Grey Wind too came plodding in after his master and began sniffing at the mother and child, curious. Irri was afraid of the direwolf at first, but the babe smiled and held out her little hands towards the beast's great muzzle.

"Don't worry, he won't bite," laughed Robb. "She is very beautiful," he began, trying to be polite, "what's her name?"

"Thank you," replied Daenerys, "her name is Drogana."

"Khaleesi name child after great Khal," explained Irri.

Robb nodded curtly; he had heard by now of what had happened to Daenerys' late husband. And although he used to think of the Dothraki as little more than savages and parasites to civilization much like the Wildlings, some modicum of courtesy and respect was warranted in these circumstances. "My, you are ... very brave to be raising the child of a king all by yourself," he began.

"Thank you," she replied, "well, I have had help. Niall and Kelly have been very supportive, and have even graciously opened up their home to Irri and me."

"You should check out our new housin' development up at the colony," chimed in Niall, "again, Kelly n' I helped pretty much designed that whole place too. We already have housin' ready fer the first 500 colonists."

"Niall and I have our own cottage now, since we're two of The Company™'s senior-most staff on this planet," added Kelly, "it's definitely a one-up over the prefab units we were living in when we first started the colony out here a year ago. Wow, how time flies; I still remember the first day you and your dad visited the colony! And now we have an indoor pool, a tennis court, a gym, and even a _Starbucks_ too all open at the colony. If you're free one of these days, you should come up and spend the day with us."

"Well, Lord Pegler told me that you're hoping to run _The Northman_ to Winterfell and back twice a day," said Robb, "I would be delighted to come over more often, and for leisure for once, and not for important business." He took a look at Baby Drogana, who was reaching for Grey Wind, trying to grasp hold onto his big shaggy head. The direwolf was surprisingly well-behaved and quiet, but it was still clear from the way he was trying to avoid her that he didn't exactly fancy this little creature hanging onto his ears...

"Would you like to hold her?" asked the young mother, shyly.

"Uh... certainly," he replied.

"Gaga!" laughed the child as her mother passed her over to the arms of the Lord Of Winterfell. For a moment, she just sat there on his lap, staring intently into his own eyes. And then, as he held up his hand to tickle her, she suddenly leant forward ... and bit his hand, drawing blood.

"Oh, FFFUUUUUUUU...!" blurted Robb, and Grey Wind too yelped out in shock.

 ** _CHOOOOOOOOO! CHOOOOOOOOO!_** blasted the train whistle, rather conveniently covering up the rest of the Young Wolf's rather ignoble proclamation.

"My lord!" exclaimed Lady Dacey, rising to her feet, alarmed.

"Are you okay?" asked Kelly urgently, "what happened?"

"Oh goodness!" remarked Daenerys as she quickly took her daughter back into her arms, "I'm ... terribly sorry! I didn't mean...!"

"No, no, it's perfectly fine!" said Robb quickly, trying to brush it off casually. He took a look at his hand. No, it was _not_ perfectly fine; his index finger was bleeding profusely, but he quickly pulled one of his leather gloves over his hand to hide the bitemark. _By the Gods, she sure has quite the bite for a child of only a few months_... "So... uh... yeah, what were we talking about again?"

"Lord Robb, I think ya might want ta have that hand o' yers looked at," commanded Niall, sternly, as he looked at Drogana Targaryen, who only smiled back, completely innocent and oblivious to anything that was going on around her.

 _ **To be continued...**_


	3. Winter Town

**Part III  
**  
The terminus of the "Autumn-Winter Railway" in Winter Town was a simple affair: just the platform and station-house, a triangular junction for reversing the locomotive for the return journey, and a depot for restocking it with coal and water. The station-house was a small cottage, hastily built, that at the moment consisted of one small room that served as the station-master's office during the day, and as an accommodation for the night watchmen at night, and a storeroom for keeping valuable railway tools and other items under lock and key.

Lord Mayor Daryl Mollen, Mayor of Winter Town, had already come to Robb with the architectural plans for a larger station house that would hopefully be built within the next couple of months. It would have novelties like glass windows, electric lighting, and even a bathroom, and would also provide a place for passengers to sit inside and stay warm on cold winter nights while awaiting the next train. If and when completed, the old station-house would remain in use as a store-room and guard-house.

But that was all in the future; for now, priority had been afforded to just getting the track itself and barest minimum supporting infrastructure complete. Instead, tonight, the feast that would commemorate the inauguration of the "Autumn-Winter Railway" would be held in the town hall of Winter Town, which Mayor Mollen was eager to show off to everyone now that the renovation and repainting was complete. In particular, Mayor Mollen was very proud of the electric lights installed in the main hall, which together provided far more illumination than the great stone hearth of the hall ever could (and not to mention with a far lower risk of burning the whole place down).

The feast was a lavish affair – Mayor Mollen had insisted that it be an extra special one to celebrate not just the launching of _The Flying Northman_ , but that it also serve to mark the one-year anniversary of the arrival of the Sky-People to the Realm (that had actually been a couple weeks ago, but who was keeping exact count?). Still, the sheer number of changes that Robb had seen in the North over these last twelve-and-a-half months was astounding. Winter Town was once little more than a seasonal settlement: the houses of the town lay abandoned in summer when the townspeople were all out in the surrounding villages and hamlets, tilling and tending the fields; they only really gathered in the town in winter, for protection and warmth and mutual support.

Now Winter Town had become a bustling trade town of nearly 9,000 people, and the vital halfway mark between White Harbor and the colony of Autumn's Frontier, where the mines, manufacturies, and marvelous machines of the Sky-People were churning out new goods and minerals by the bushel every day. Within the town's markets, one could now find anything, from the manufactured goods of the Sky-People, to exotic silks and spices from Essos. And then the announcement had come last month that the number of daily ship arrivals in White Harbor had now overtaken King's Landing, a city ten times that size, for the first time in history. Of course, much of that was owed to the fact that with the capital under siege and war raging across much of the Riverlands, Crownlands, Reach, and Stormlands, many of the traders who had plied the Narrow Sea had been forced to turn to White Harbor and Gulltown instead. Now that the war was over and King Stannis promised the restoration of some semblance of order to the Realm, Robb had little doubt that many of these traders would return to the more southerly routes.

He took a sip of his wine – a hot mulled blackberry vintage imported from the Free Cites. He winced. Perhaps a little too sweet and cloying for the tastes of someone born and bred on the hard ales of the North. Robb much preferred the beverages of the Sky-People, like this bitter "coffee" of theirs. He had grown a taste for that bitter but revitalizing beverage over the last few months, and was at least somewhat fascinated to investigate this place that had opened up at the colony that The Company called a "Starbucks". Perhaps he would take up Ser Donnelly and Lady Adams on their invitation to spend a leisurely weekend with them – he had been to the colony many times now, but only ever on important business.

Across the hall, Mayor Mollen and his wife were of course making themselves the belle of this ball, making sure that they had met everyone who was someone, be it Company, United Nations, Northern, or someone from elsewhere in the Seven Kingdoms, or even across the Narrow Sea. They had more so than others had embraced the times that were a-changin', and that much was reflected in their choice of clothing: the Mayor himself wore a coat and top-hat, whilst Aelyzabeth wore a dress she had tailored herself, inspired by pictures in some of the books they were given, and made on that new fangled device called a "sewing machine". For all the rifles and other goods, it was really the mundane items, like needle-and-thread and even simple steel nails, that were making the greatest difference around Winter Town.

He'd made the usual rounds of formalities, meeting all of the important guests, Northern and Sky-People alike, then checking up on his mother and sisters and little Rickon too, and then catching up with Niall and Kelly, and Lady Dacey, and little Wylla Manderly who always brought a smile to his face. But something was missing tonight. He wished Theon or Jon was here, but they were both gone; as it was, Theon had been sent along with a mission from the Sky-People to contact his father, Lord Balon out on Pyke, about Gods-know-what.

His hand had been fine all day, but somehow, it was beginning to itch again, in spite of the balm he'd been given on the train, so he decided to step outside for a moment to try to take his mind off of it. Grey Wind was reluctant to follow at first, far too content to laze around and gnaw on a fresh bone he'd been given, but eventually relented and followed his master obediently.

Outside, the town square of Winter Town was still up and active with dozens of townspeople milling about at this dusk hour. The arrival of the train had certainly caused a huge commotion in the town, with practically the entire population turning up at once to see it. It was then that he noticed someone standing right by the door, gently rocking a bundle in her arms...

"Your daughter packs quite the bite for her age," he began, holding up his right hand, a cotton bandage wrapped around it. "She'll grow up to be a strong woman yet."

"I'm terribly sorry," she replied, sincerely, "I didn't mean for any of today's unpleasantries on the train here."

"Gaga!" piped up Drogana, drooling and smiling to be seeing a familiar face. She must have really liked the taste of the Lord Of Winterfell. Grey Wind stood back, somewhat confused over all of this. _Oh c'mon Grey Wind!_ thought Robb to himself, slightly annoyed. _What's wrong boy? You've fought half the armies of the South, and now you're scared of a baby?_

"No, not at all, it's fine!" he began, "although I suppose I now have to live with the irony that ... well, all of these battles and armies I have faced against down south, and never once have I ever suffered so much as a single scratch. I come up here, and this happens. Your daughter has accomplished what not even that thrice-damned Kingslayer could."

"That is rather ironic when you think about it..." replied the young mother.

"I dread to imagine what she'll be like grown up!" laughed Robb.

"I suppose she is the dragon, and no-one is stronger than the dragon," she mused.

"Aye, dragon and Dothraki? Now that is a potent mix."

"Gaga! Googoo!" giggled the toddler in her arms, almost as if in agreement.

"Speaking of the Kingslayer..." she began, slowly.

He shook his head. "Yes, I should have killed that incestuous murderer when I had the chance, sent him to join his duplicitous father down in the Seventh Hell! Last I heard, he and his ilk were being hauled off to another world to live the rest of their lives in exile. That is still a fate far too kind for them."

She sighed. "It pains me to say this, seeing what that traitor did to my family, but ... it probably is for the best that you spared him. It is ... it is after all what your lord father would have wanted. And from what Ser Donnelly and Lady Adams have told me, the place he has gone may very well be a living hell."

"Yes, that world does not sound like a place I would ever want to go..." he replied, pensively.

"Goodness gracious no! After all those stories I've read about ... men with the heads of beasts, and rats the size of men, and other horrors and acts of black sorcery and Ruinous Powers ... they have made moving pictures of some of the things on that world, but I've avoided watching any of them, lest they give me nightmares."

"Indeed," he agreed, "but all the same, the men who live and survive in such places must be a truly courageous and hardy lot. I've heard much about this 'Empire' over there; their king, this 'Emperor Karl Franz' – now he seems like the kind of able statesmen I could learn a thing or two from! I've seen a moving picture of him riding upon a ... a griffon! And I've heard that he rides a dragon too from time to time."

"So I've heard too!" she remarked, "just like my ancestors. This Emperor must have some of the blood of Old Valyria in him."

"I wonder if the Sky-People would be willing to facilitate some kind of formal links between our world and the others," he continued, "apart from this Emperor, I've heard that King Elassar is quite a respectable leader too. One of his generals is coming here on a formal diplomatic trip quite soon. I'll be excited to meet General Boromir, the Hero Of Pelennor Fields! Now that was a battle I hear puts even my own victories in the south to shame."

"Gee-ah!" piped up Drogana.

"To be entirely fair though," replied Daenerys, holding her child closer to her, "we have a few terrifying things here on this world too. Where Ser Donnelly and Adams are living is not too far from that place they call 'Outpost B', where they found those White Walkers. Ser Jorah told me all about the old stories, of the First Men, of the Children Of The Forest, and of the Long Night."

"And now he's gone off beyond the Wall, him and Jon both... looking for more White Walkers for The Company, I would imagine," he cut in.

"You worry for Jon, don't you?"

"He was my brother – still is in fact. And now that I know the truth of his birth, I feel ashamed for what he had to live through his whole life."

"Do not be too harsh on yourself, Lord Stark. It was a facade necessary to protect him from the Usurper. My own brother Viserys and I lived most of our lives on the run, sometimes little more than mere minutes ahead of the Usurper's assassins. Do you know what it feels like, Lord Stark, to live your entire life in fear and doubt, never knowing that any moment, you may have to leave everything behind?"

"I can only imagine..." he replied, not knowing what else to say. Now that he thought about it, for all the times he spoke of the North's "oppression at the hands of the Southrons", his life had always been one of comfort and nobility, sheltered in Winterfell.

She continued: "The Sky-People are a strange lot, and sometimes I feel more their prisoner than their guest, but for better or worse, these last few months have been the first time in a very long time that I have been at peace. My late husband... I adored him, he was my Sun And Stars ... but life with the Dothraki can be a cruel and unforgiving affair. But regardless, I'm delighted to know that Jon was brought up by a good family, and in peace." She paused. "Of course, I can't imagine that the Usurper's brother will be too pleased at all when he inevitably finds out about this."

 _That was a rather uncomfortable thought_... He tried to change the conversation: "you know, given Prince Rhaeger and my aunt Lyanna ... I suppose that makes you part of our family. If you ever wish to come live in Winterfell, and there is always an opening in the Academy Of The North..."

"I appreciate the offer Lord Stark, but even after the truth of my brother becomes public, I think there may be far too much bad blood for my kind here in the North." She took a quick glance around. "I already get the feeling from some of your bannermen here tonight that quite a few of them lost friends and loved ones in the Usurper's war."

"No-one here tonight blames you for a war started before you were even born," replied he, "and in any case, that's all behind now – the Mad... uh, _King Aerys_ , the Rebellion, King Robert, the Kingslayer, the Mountain, Tywin, Joffrey ... they're gone forever. The only thing that matters now is the future." He had a point: ever since the Red Fork and other battles since, the pool of the old landed nobility of the Realm was slowly shrinking through attrition – even that of The North, so he had noticed, and he was now determined to fill every leadership vacuum or niche with a young, new, and energetic face, preferably one who also bought into his vision for the rise of the new "modern" Northern State.

The lady considered his words carefully, while caressing her child in her arms. "Thank you Lord Stark, but ... I will remain as I am." She lowered her voice: "between you and I, I believe my current hosts may have their own plans regarding what is to be done with me, and I fear I may not have much choice in the matter."

"Ah," he replied, not sure what else to say. As much as he had come to view them as friends – saviors even, for it was they who had rescued his father and sisters and given him the weapons that had won him the war – the Sky-People were still a great unknown to Robb. Whatever they wanted, they would take without a second thought. And no-one, not even the White Walkers it seemed, could stop them. The good news was that at least the new leadership at the colony were a lot more fair and on the level in their dealings. Lord Kovacs, for all of his amicable and charming personality, had really started to ruffle the Young Wolf's fur towards the end, such that he had even lashed out at him on one occasion. And he knew that Daenerys too had a very bad experience with Lord Kovacs, and so he wisely dared not bring him up in this conversation. His replacement, Lord Zimmerman, on the other hand, was someone he much rather preferred working with. But for better or worse, the future of The North depended on the industry, trade, and technology that the foreigners were bringing, especially once winter arrived, and so Robb quietly thanked the Old Gods and the New that their relationship thus far had not been too one-sided...

"Lord Stark, if I may ask an honest question?" asked Daenerys, bringing him out of his trance. "Do you really believe that peace has come to the Realm for good?"

Robb shifted uncomfortably, and his right hand began to sting. "Why would you ask that?"

"I couldn't help but notice that the last wagon on the train here was laden entirely with weaponry. You would almost suspect that the First Army Of The North were rearming for another go at the lions, perhaps this time to finish them off for good..."

"We are at peace with the Westerlands," cut Robb, sternly, "for now. Lord Tyrion Lannister is unlike the other monsters in his family; he will not repeat his father's atrocities. And the Sky-People too will see to it that their new colonies in the south are not threatened by further war."

"Still, if I were to hazard a guess, I would say The Northman were carrying at least a couple thousand rifles today, and five new cannons, and all in unmarked boxes."

"Only 500, actually," corrected Robb, "and the rest is all ammunition. After Red Fork, we took all of the Lannisters' cannons as reparations, so we only need five more to form two new artillery companies. The 'Napoleon 12-pounder guns' served us well down south, but we are told these new 'Armstrong guns' are even better. Now that the other Seven Kingdoms seem to be learning never to charge the First Army head on, I realize we should start investing in obliterating them from long-range."

"I will admit I'm perhaps not as tactically-inclined as you," she confessed, "but I understand enough to know that this does not sound to me like an army disbanding at the end of a war."

"My lady, the First Army is no mere peasant levy, it is a permanent and professional army," boasted the Young Wolf, his chest swelling with pride, "if the North is to be a modern state, it needs a modern army. And yes, even in peacetime. A wise leader of the Sky-People, named Theodore Roosevelt, once said that one must 'speak softly and carry a big stick'. In the south, I learnt that a rifleman with enough bullets is the equal of twenty good men with swords or spears. A single artillery company, at sufficient range, can decimate an entire generation's worth of mounted nobility. I saw with mine own eyes the better part of the knightly classes of three entire Kingdoms torn to shreds by the remorseless pounding and clattering of those brass beasts. And so it shall be. Whatever it takes to defend my people, my nation, my realm ... against the Southrons, against the Wildlings, against the White Walkers and other threats from beyond ... and to finally earn our rightful place among nations, I will do it!"

"Stirring words, Young Wolf. Duly noted," she laughed. Not too far away, they heard the sudden **_CHOOOO! CHOOOO!_** of the train whistle blasting, and the doors of the town hall were thrown wide open as guests and dignitaries began to filter out. "My apologies, Lord Stark, but that is the signal for us to begin making our way back for the return to the colony. But thank you, and whatever it is you seek, Lord Stark, I do wish you all the best in finding it."


	4. Vive Le Nord!

_**Foreword** : Thanks all for the enthusiastic reception this story has received so far, and I look forward to hearing the rest of your responses as we continue onwards!_

* * *

 **Part IV  
**  
Ever since the creation of the First Army Of The North, Winterfell's main armory had been moved to the stables, where there was more space, and the horses kept there were instead moved to the new stable building erected outside the castle, out on the marshaling fields. Space within the mighty walls of Winterfell, which had stood proudly for thousands of years since the age of Brandon The Builder himself, was now at a premium, and even the renovation of the old broken tower into the new "Academy Of The North" did little to resolve this issue.

But if Lord Mayor Daryl Mollen had things his way, hopefully, there would be no need for walls in future. Winter Town, unlike Winterfell, was not enclosed within great hundred-foot double stone walls, and thus would always rely on the First Army to be their first and final line of defense. For this reason, Mollen had agreed to Lord Stark's plans for the expansion and development of Winter Town to be accompanied by a major overhauling of the First Army, and it was for this reason that the Lord Mayor was gathered here tonight, inside the old armory of Winterfell. The weapon stores had been moved to the new armory, but the great forge remained; no, instead, the Lord Of Winterfell had appropriated this place to be his personal laboratory.

"What do ya think, m'lord?" asked Delane as Daryl entered the workshop. The blacksmith and three of his apprentices had recently returned to the castle after having spent the last six months at Autumn's Frontier, where the Sky-People had contracted them as manual laborers to work in their great manufactorum. Delane and his boys had returned rich in the coin the foreigners had paid them (and noticeably cleaner and more pleasant smelling – clearly the foreigners' hygiene habits and a visit to their dentist had been good for them), but whatever they had earned in gold and silver was little compared to what they had gained in knowledge. Any worker returning from the colony had become a prized commodity, and Daryl was now doing his utmost best to keep all of them in Winter Town, so that whatever useful skills and experience they may have gained remain there.

Daryl Mollen took off his top hat and coat, pulled up a chair, and took a minute to admire the smith's handiwork that was presented to him. It looked similar to the "Martini-Henry" fire-arms that Lord Stark had equipped the First Army with, but with a recognizably simpler design. Daryl was no master craftsman himself, but he knew enough about the trade to know that the rifles of the Sky-People were simply far too intricate and advanced in their design and metallurgy to be copied exactly by the finest craftsmen Winterfell could afford. However, even a less powerful model might suffice...

"This is to Lord Stark's specifications?" asked Daryl.

"To the plans and measurements I was given? Why yes," replied Delane, "but whether it'll perform as he requested out on the field is another matter entirely. We need to test it – among other things, to make sure it doesn't simply explode in the wielder's face."

"Indeed," agreed Daryl, "I would rather not risk subjecting our entire army to a fate similar to His Grace the Late King Robert." He picked the weapon up in his hands, so that he could take a closer look at the mechanism that Delane and his apprentices had spent much of the last few days working on. "How does this work?"

"My Lord," began the smith, "the mechanism is intricate, yes, but the actual workings are rather simple. The Sky-People call this a 'flintlock' – that 'ere is the flint. To fire, you pour a lil o' the powder into this 'ere pan, close the frizzen, lock the hammer as such..." To demonstrate his point, Delane took the firearm back from Daryl and pulled back the piece he was talking about. A loud _click_ was heard. "And then, you pull the trigger like this..." Another loud _click_ as the hammer snapped forward and the flint struck the pan, producing a small spark.

"And that's what ignites the powder charge and the shot?" remarked Daryl. "Impressive. Good work, Delane. We will test this device on the firing range tomorrow."

"Thanks m'lord," replied the smith, bowing slightly.

"And you have my thanks as well," came a voice from behind as someone entered the room, "that, Lord Mollen, is called a 'Charleville Musket' ... or at least our attempt to replicate it."

Into the workshop strode the Lord Of Winterfell himself, dressed in a simple Stark grey tunic, his enormous direwolf plodding along right beside him. He continued: "it was the main firearm of the armies of such great Sky-People leaders as Napoleon, or Washington. It originated in the ancient noble Kingdom of France, but was given in large numbers to the American freehold, the Sky-People nation where Lords Kovacs and Zimmerman are from, during their war for independence against the King Of England. It is a far earlier and weaker and less effective weapon than the Martini-Henry or the Enfield, but it will do its part against anything the other Seven Kingdoms or the Wildlings can throw at us."

"We intend to produce it in large numbers?" inquired Daryl as he stood up to greet his liege lord.

"That is one possibility," replied the Lord of Winterfell as he took a seat and removed the leather glove from his left hand (but not his right, so Daryl noticed). "If we can produce our own firearms and our own powder and shot, then we can focus our trade with the Sky-People on those items that we cannot produce on our own, such as artillery, radio, and their medicines. But only if the firearms we do produce are worth the effort that goes into making them. I felt that the Charleville would be a good place to start. If we can master this relatively simple design, then we could either focus on simply producing more of these, or else move onward with trying our hand at other, more advanced ones."

"My lord, you are aware that everything we make, the Sky-People can make a thousand times faster and for a hundredth the price?" inquired Daryl.

"Aye," agreed the Lord of Winterfell, "I do realize that. But all the same, that does not mean we should shy away from attempting innovation and progress of our own. If we succeed, then we are one step closer to making the North a true leader among nations. If we fail, alas, at least we made the effort, and the lessons we learn here may go towards other things." He smiled. "I already have a list of about a couple hundred items I want Delane here to try to make."

"For enough Dragons in me pocket, I'll try to build another _Flying Northman_ if ya wish, m'lord," smiled Delane.

Daryl frowned, seriously considering the logistical and practical implications of this. "Well, my lord, most of the agricultural tools, iron stoves, printing press, horse-drawn carriages, and bladed implements I believe are well within our capabilities, especially now that we are making steel faster and in greater amounts and higher quality than ever before, ever since we built those new coal-fired furnaces. But with regards to the rifles and anything else, well, even if we could build these on our own, the question is not so much whether we can do it, but rather whether we can do so quickly and for as little cost as we would like."

"Yes," agreed Robb, "which is why if it turns out that our own firearms would prove too costly and inefficient, our back-up plan would be to instead focus on devising improved crossbows for equipping our non-rifle troops. I've seen a design for an 'automatic crossbow' I quite liked..."

"My Lord, if I may," responded Lord Daryl, "may we speak in private?"

Lord Robb agreed, and beckoned Delane and his apprentices to take leave for the night. When they were alone, Daryl continued: "I've been thinking of ways that we may try to justify our refusal to disband the First Army now that the war is over... because it is probably inevitable by now that your Lord Father and His Grace King Stannis know of our rearmament program." He cast a glance around. "Especially if either the Spider or someone else has spies here in The North." He had a point: where once The North was largely ignored by the rest of the known world, now, it seemed everyone as far away as Qarth was rushing to send their own traders and craftsmen to the markets of Winter Town, eager to see for themselves the marvels of the peoples from beyond the sky. This had brought much gold and exotic goods flowing into Winterfell, but attention could also be a double-edged sword...

"I understand, but there is neither need to hide nor justify our actions, we already have a legitimate cause," asserted Robb, "peace may have returned to the south, but here in the North, we may be facing invasions of Wildling and White Walker both within the next year. I have no doubt that's the reason the Sky-People sent my brother Jon beyond the Wall. Even with their help, dealing with either does not promise to be a straightforward affair."

"Still," replied Daryl, "even if we are acting merely in self-defense, let us not forget that arming ourselves is one reason Tywin Lannister attacked us. Not to mention that he also probably believed at the time that we were complicit in Lord Baelish's poisoning of bastard Joffrey – possibly even plotting in concert with the Targaryens."

Robb said nothing, but glared. Daryl knew at once that the Young Wolf did not like being told that he too may have been at least partly at fault for provoking the war that had raged over the Riverlands. As far as he was concerned, it was all the lions' fault – that much had been set in stone in the treaty they had made the new Lord Tyrion sign. To be entirely fair, it was indeed the Lannisters who had started everything when they pushed Brandon out of the broken tower, or rather, when they allowed the bitch queen to pursue her adulterous incest with the disgraced Kingslayer completely unnoticed and unpunished in the first place. That much was never in doubt. All the same, however, Daryl felt it was sometimes necessary to hear both sides of the argument, for the challenging of one's own views was very much like the tempering of steel, and could only serve to strengthen both in the long run.

To the Young Wolf's credit, he did not remain angry for long. Instead, he sighed, and resorted to running his left hand over Grey Wind's thick mane, as he usually did whenever distressed or annoyed. "What do you propose, Lord Mollen?" he asked. Headstrong and impetuous as he could be at times, he was at least always willing to listen and take good counsel to heart.

"My Liege, I believe that a good compromise would be as follows," began Daryl, "at this moment, even with the new rifles and cannons, the vast majority of our army is still composed of pikes, swords, and bows. What I propose is that we concentrate all of our rifles into one division, which will be permanent, and then the remaining ones will be reassigned and put to work either out in the fields, or in our factories, shipyards, and coal mines."

"A military reserve force," replied Robb, "so we are 'disbanding' the First Army without quite disbanding it."

"Precisely," said Daryl, "we are putting them to work around here, so we can quickly call these men back into active service if necessary. In the mean time, of course, we will also be profiting greatly from the extra labor, and I daresay that the discipline that a man learns when in the army can be useful when put to work on the factory floor. If the North is to be a strong nation, it needs a strong economy. In the mean time, we'll simply compensate Dreadfort and Karhold and Last Hearth and so on with gold and silver for the labor we are extracting from their bannermen."

"That reminds me," said the Lord Of Winterfell, "if I recall correctly, Lord Zimmerman said that they would be bringing in the second shipment of reparations from Casterly Rock in a few days. We'll have to go back to the colony to fetch it."

"Yes, my lord," nodded Daryl, "I've already planned ahead to make sure that we have at least two cars on _The Flying Northman_ booked for that day." He paused briefly and smiled. "I ... must admit, the sight of train cars stacked high with boxes full of Lannister gold, flowing into our treasury, paying for all of our public works and investments and new toys - it is rather appealing. I could get used to it."

"As could I," agreed the Young Wolf, "my, what a glorious age of progress and untold possibilities we live in."


	5. Hour Of The Wolf

_**Foreword** : a brief announcement. After how well the first few chapters were received, I've decided to expand what began as a simple 2-chapter "Christman Special" into a full-length mini spin-off story as a kind of filler for those of you who've read Event Horizon Book1 and are eagerly awaiting the next main book in the series. Thanks for the support!_

* * *

 **Part V:**

Winterfell had changed so much in those few months they had spent down in King's Landing, but all the same, it gave Arya Stark immense comfort to be back in the home she had known most of her life, even if almost every other month brought some new change that left the castle and its surrounding hinterlands completely unrecognizable from before. From a town that had usually lain empty in the summer growing season, Wintertown had suddenly grown into a bustling market town the likes of which could almost rival the hustle and bustle of White Harbor, and that she almost certainly found to be far more welcoming to her than King's Landing, after all the horrible things that had transpired there.

But the memories of the capital would haunt her for the rest of her life, she knew, especially of what happened to Nymeria. She would almost certainly never forget the image burned into her mind of Nym laying there, in that nightmarish black tunnel under the Red Keep, bloodied and slain by Littlefinger's horrid henchmen, feeling the pain within her as if it were she herself who had been stabbed by them in Nym's place.

Tonight, for some reason, she found it hard to sleep. Too many thoughts and ideas clouded her mind – of Mother and Little Rickon; of Sansa and of Lady, who had come to fill some of the empty place in her soul that Nym's parting had left; of Father still down in the capital, struggling to help King Stannis restore some semblance of order to the shattered Realm; of Robb and his ambitions and plans with Lord Mollen; of Brandon, who was away on another world, still recovering from his fall; of Syrio who had escaped the capital together with them and with whom she had immersed herself fully into her "dancing lessons" in spite of her mother's disapproval. She tossed and she turned in bed, and then finally decided she perhaps needed to clear her mind. She rolled over and checked the time on her "MyPhone", that device that Lord Kovacs had gifted to her all those months ago. It was just past midnight.

Pushing back the covers, Arya quickly dressed herself up in whatever clothing she had lying out on her chair, which was mainly her "Sky-People clothing" - her Mother disapproved of a young lady like her wearing such clothes, but they were comfortable and practical and easy to move around in. She especially liked that "hoodie" that Lord Zimmerman had given her, complete with the direwolf sigil and the house words "Winter Is Coming" finely embroidered into it. Apparently, The Company had wanted to ask permission to sell "merchandise" bearing the Stark sigil and words upon it, and Lord Zimmerman had sent several samples to Winterfell as gifts.

And then she was off, alone, moving quietly but briskly through the halls and corridors of the Great Keep of Winterfell, trying her best to repeat the steps of a water-dancer shown to her by Syrio. She cautiously smiled at herself – no-one, not Mother or Robb or Rickon or Sansa or even any of the watchmen on duty tonight heard her, she was certain.

Before long, making her way throughout the Great Keep, she emerged out onto the bailey, and looked around. It was a new moon, so there would be no moonlight tonight, only the stars, and a few of those electric lights that Robb had ordered installed around the castle. None, however, had been set up yet in this area of the castle. Arya had grown accustomed to feeling perfectly at home in the darkness, like she had been adopted by it, moulded by it, like it was her ally. Tonight, she felt liberated, a predator out on the prowl...

It was then that out of the darkness loomed the shape of what could only have been what was once the Broken Tower, now renovated and reborn as Robb's "Academy Of The North", where young ladies and lordlings from all over the North could be formally educated in her elder brother's hopes of turning this land into a "modern" state and all that entailed. Ever since their return from the south, Arya and her sister too had been enrolled in this academy, and class was held five days out of the week, every day on some new topic.

Class was usually taught by three Maesters who had come from Oldtown, who would instruct them on topics like arithmetic and history and lore of the Realm, although the Sky-People would occasionally send a tutor too down from the colony to teach a class or two on the ideas and history of the Sky-Peoples. More often than not, their foreign ideas clashed a little with those of the Maesters, but for what it was worth, Arya quite liked the foreigners and most of their ideas, like the one that a girl should pick and choose her own life and not have one imposed upon her. She had taken to her studies well, but all the same, she found that of the various boys and girls who had come to Winterfell to attend the Academy, she seemed to get along far better with the likes of, say, little Ethan Forrester, or with Meera Reed, than with the other girls, like Wylla Manderly and Alys Karstark.

This was where Brandon had fallen, and to rebuild it into a symbol of hope for the future had been partly Mother's idea as a way of coping with what had happened to him. Last they had heard of him, Bran was away on one of the other nearby worlds, where he was still recovering and regaining the use of his legs. He seemed to be satisfied though, and was in frequent communication with the rest of the family. That was a small reprieve for Mother.

For some reason, thinking of Bran had suddenly given Arya the urge to climb that tower there and then. She looked around her. No-one was watching. No, this would be an achievement she would celebrate on her own. And with that, she set herself to the long and arduous challenge of climbing the tower.

* * *

Was it an hour? Was it more? Arya did not know nor care, but she inched forward all the same, little by little, feeling the cold stone wall ahead of her, constantly feeling for the next handgrip. This would be her moment of truth, to see if Syrio's lessons had paid off.

By now, her eyes had grown accustomed to the darkness, keen like a cat's, and she could see the balcony just in front of her that was her goal for tonight. Suddenly, she could feel the rock she had put her right foot on beginning to shift, as if it were dislodging from the wall. _Shit_ , she thought, _no, don't panic. What would Syrio do?_ With all of her strength, she reached out with her right hand, found a solid grip, and pulled her weight forward.

The stone stopped shifting; she breathed a sigh of intense relief. She turned her attention back to what lay in front of her, and found, to her surprise, that it was only a couple feet remaining. It was also then that she noticed the dark hooded figure that stood right above her, looking down at her. It was certainly not one of the castle guards, nor could it be Syrio... or could it?

"Valar Morghulis!" whispered Arya, just loudly enough for the hooded man to hear her.

The stranger, however, seemed confused by this statement, as it did not respond immediately and only stared at her. And then it spoke to her, and Arya knew who it was at once. "For a second there, I thought Brandon had returned to us," spoke the figure as it pulled back its hood, revealing beneath the face and long auburn hair of Sansa Stark.

"What?" hissed Arya, looking back down the way she had climbed up, "You were asleep! How... how did you...?"

"I took the stairs," replied Sansa, smugly, "I have a copy of the key to the tower, you know."

"No, how did you know I was here?" muttered Arya, "were you... following me?"

"You're not nearly as stealthy as you think you are," teased Sansa, "not yet, anyway. That, and I had a little help." As if on cue, Lady emerged from the shadow right behind her, and obediently sat down beside her. Sansa gently laid her hand upon the direwolf's great furry head and patted her rewardingly.

"You're not going to tell mother, will you?" she asked.

"What use would it be?" replied Sansa, "it didn't stop Brandon; it's most certainly not going to be stopping you." She then knelt down and held out her hand towards her sister.

Arya looked at her for a moment, then sighed and grabbed hold of her. Sansa smiled and pulled her sister up the rest of the way.

Once Arya was up safely with her, Sansa sat down and turned to gaze at the night sky. "The view is beautiful up here," she remarked, "the skies over King's Landing, or over Dragonstone are nowhere near as perfect as this."

Arya said nothing, but Lady seemed to whimper in agreement. For an amount of time that could have been as little as a few minutes, or as long as an hour, the two sisters and their direwolf just sat there atop the tower, in silence, gazing up at the skies above them. It was the peak of the hour of the wolf, and the stars were out in full force, shimmering brilliantly against the infinite black void between worlds...

"Do you remember Old Nan's tales?" spoke up Arya at last, "like how she said the sky was blue because the whole world is located in the eye of a giant and his eyes are blue?"

"Yes, I remember that," replied her sister, "I just never thought about what world did the giant himself live upon."

"Well," she continued, "one of the moving pictures that was on the 'MyPhone' that Fred, uh, _Lord Kovacs_ gave to me was this one show that was performed by this great wiseman and philosopher of the Sky-People named Lord Neil De Grasse Of House Tyson. And he said that our world is located inside of something gigantic, like, really, really big, called 'the galaxy'."

"I thought Lord Kovacs said it was called 'The Milky Way'," said Sansa, a little confused.

"Yes, the Milky Way is just one galaxy among many others," explained Arya, "just as the sun, which the Sky-People call 'Epsilon Eridani', is just one star among the countless others we can see. And the Milky Way is so big that not even the Sky-People are able to travel across it, even with their mighty flying ships that can fly faster than lightning!" For once, Arya felt excited about talking with her sister, sharing what she had learned from the foreigners about the true scale of this world and the universe they lived in. And for once, Sansa actually seemed genuinely interested to share this moment with her. She proudly continued: "our galaxy has billions and billions of stars. Every star could be like ours, surrounded by many worlds. Every world could have its own people upon it. And each and every one of those people has their own unique story to tell."

"My goodness," breathed Sansa, half in disbelief, "and you believe every remarkable thing this Lord Tyson has to say?"

"To be entirely fair," said Arya, "ever since the Sky-People came to our world, I've seen the impossible again and again. Who is to say what can be done and what cannot anymore? Whether Lord Tyson is true or not, there is simply an entire incredible universe out there, full of anything we can imagine!"

"Indeed," muttered Sansa, not once taking her eyes from the sky. "Look! Do you see that? There's a shooting star!"

Arya shrugged. "It could be. It could also be one of the Sky-People's flying ships. Or maybe one of their delivery packages. Fred told me about them. The Sky-People have something they call a 'mass driver' which is like a huge cannon and they use that to hurl packages full of... stuff, from one world to another."

"Amazing," replied Sansa, "yes, there! I saw another one!"

Arya smiled. "I... I want to travel to one of those other worlds one day. Do you think mother will ever let me?"

"You are asking for much," replied Sansa, "Brandon is already on one of those other worlds, and that is about all Mother is willing to tolerate."

"I know, but some of these worlds seem incredible!" insisted Arya, "there is Earth, where the Sky-People are from. Earth, with its great cities of glass and steel spires and dazzling lights. And then there are the other worlds here, that also share our sun. Mayhaps I will never get to set foot on Earth itself, but these other worlds are much closer!"

"Maybe one day, when we are older. We still have much to see on this world already without having to think about leaving it."

"True. But I never wish to return to the South ever again. Not after what happened. And I wish father wasn't down there right now, with King Stannis."

Sansa was silent at first, but frowned and nodded weakly. Perhaps she too was reliving her horrid memories of what had happened to her down in the capital. At long last, she spoke, quietly: "dear sister... if you ever are able to go and see these other worlds for yourself... will you take me with you? I am rather curious myself..."

"Of course," answered Arya, smiling "whatever happens, we are wolves, and the wolf's strength is the pack." Lady barked – not loudly, but enough to signal her approval.

"What are you talking about, you're not a wolf," chastised Sansa, "more like a scruffy, dirty little cat."

Arya glared at her sister for a moment. And then, both sisters broke out into laughter.


	6. Lions & Alliances

**The Flying Northman (VI)  
**  
There was a great commotion about the railway yard; workmen were scrambling about, and the crane was lowering the last of the boxes onto the flatbed car. These boxes were labeled only with numbers and no words, but everyone knew what exactly was within them. One of The Company's Falcon aircraft had gone off to deliver supplies and equipment to their new colony down in the Westerlands, and had now returned hauling with it a very special cargo...

"One million, one hundred and twenty-five thousand Gold Dragons, all packed and accounted for, according to our _special friends_ ," said Lord Mayor Daryl Mollen as he strode up to the Lord Of Winterfell's side, checking through the cargo manifest he was holding in his hands, "all of it in gold, 10,000 Dragons to each crate. Once we arrive back at Winterfell..."

Robb cut him off. "If possible, Lord Mollen, I'd like to see these reparations for myself."

Daryl nodded, and commanded three of the workmen nearby to heft one of the heavy wooden crates over to present it before them. One of them brandished an iron crowbar, with which he then proceeded to pry open the top of the box. The contents within began to twinkle and glow as light entered the darkness within.

Gold. Lots of it. Robb felt a slight tingling in his right hand as his gaze fell upon the chest filled to brimming with little gleaming coins, some engraved with the lion of Casterly Rock, others with the royal sigil of the ruling Baratheon house, and yet many others, so he noticed, still bore the majestic dragon sigil of the Targaryens upon them. Without thinking, he plunged his right hand into the bowels of the chest and grabbed a handful of coin, feeling the weight and texture in his hand. Grey Wind meanwhile sniffed curiously at the box, curious over what was it exactly his master was enthused over. He ran his fingers through the coins, hearing the clinking like music to his ears.

"Ahem... my lord?" asked Daryl, raising an eyebrow.

Robb snapped out of it. "Sorry, uh, it's nothing," he said quickly, "so you were saying before?"

Daryl Mollen looked concerned for a moment, but then continued: "right. Once we're at Winterfell, we'll have to decide how it will be partitioned among the banners."

Robb nodded in agreement. As had been negotiated beforehand, each lord receiving a share proportional to how many men and horse their house had contributed to the First Army Of The North. This meant that Winterfell, White Harbor, and Dreadfort would be receiving the three largest shares. However, there had been some discussion as of late among some of the lords over how any further costs incurred during the war should be allocated.

Since this whole program had been his plan, Winterfell's treasury had until now burdened all the costs of all the new equipment, uniforms, and weaponry for the First Army. What was in question, however, was who was going to pay for each soldier's individual upkeep – the cost of their feeding and clothing and so forth. Some of the other lords had been making signs lately that due to Winterfell's newfound wealth, which hadn't yet trickled down to the rest of the North save for White Harbor and Deepwood Motte, perhaps it was only fair and honorable that Winterfell continue to pay a slightly higher portion of the cost than what the other Houses would pay, proportional to their contribution to the First Army.

Robb sighed and rubbed his temples. His passions lay in matters of warfare and technology, and not in matters of finance and trade. But alas, finance and trade, and not guns and steel alone, were precisely the lifeblood of the modern state, and if the North were ever to be one, these could not simply be ignored.

"While we're on the subject of gold, Maester Jeremy and I have been discussing amongst ourselves and with Lord Zimmerman as of late," continued Mollen, "we're going to have to set up our own financial sector eventually; we're going to need a central bank, insurance services, credit unions, the like. House Manderly already has a few bankers and money-lenders we could summon here."

"The 'First Bank Of The North'?" commented Robb, "I suppose it's only a matter of time before we start _printing_ our own currency too."

"That is one possibility in the long-term," mused Daryl, "I did speak with Lord Daniel at great length, and they had offered to provide some preliminary financial services for us, such as insurance, as well as a secure repository where we could store whatever gold we're not using for transactions with either the Free Cities or the other Houses. They'd act as a central bank for us, issuing gold certificates that we could use as a form of paper currency, or even help us set up some form of... what do they call it? 'Electronic banking'."

"Goodness, you certainly are thinking quite far ahead," muttered Robb.

"Indeed," nodded Daryl, "there are forces at work in this world far greater than any army or magic, and those are the forces of the market. Speaking of which, here comes our honorable host."

"Mr. Stark, Mr. Mollen," greeted Daniel Zimmerman, nodding politely as he approached them, "that should be all the gold packed and loaded." Daryl nodded in agreement and thanked him for the help in arranging for the transportation of the gold - on paper, the North and Riverlands had exacted a vast fortune from the Rock. But in practice, the North could not enjoy their share of the gold until they had brought it over a thousand miles, while the Riverlords had paid a terrible price for this wealth, in terms of lives lost and countryside scoured.

Accompanying Lord Zimmerman was another man whom Robb had never met before, one who was also dressed in a clean and pressed suit and tie, but he had a darker complexion and accent that made him look and sound vaguely like one who was from across the Narrow Sea. "Kerim Mustafi," spoke the man, holding out his hand in greeting, "I'm here with our infrastructure and financial services development outreach program."

"Mr. Mustafi here used to work with the World Bank and the IMF out of our office in Istanbul, but also with UNESCO on cultural heritage preservation," added Daniel, "say, you're interested in Greek history, right?"

"Well, yes," answered Robb, "I've always wanted to visit your great cities like Athens and Sparta and Pella, where Alexander..."

"Nah, don't bother," interjected Mustafi, "Greece's economy is in the gutter yet again these days; we practically own them. Come to my hometown instead! If you like history, we have cool places to visit - Istanbul, of course, but also Ephesus, Bodrum, and other sites from Ancient Anatolia. And would you believe it, we also have a city named 'Batman'!"

By now, Robb had actually heard mention of this old Sky-People legend about the Dark Knight Of Bats, and of other mythical heroes too like the Woman Of Wonders and the Man Of Steel and the Man Of Iron whose name coincidentally was Stark. Apparently, many great moving pictures had made about these heroes, and he had meant to ask Daniel one day to perhaps see one of these for himself, so it came as no surprise that they would name a city after him.

"Anyway, the train's not due to leave for another couple hours," added Daniel, "we'd be honored if in the mean time, you would join us and our _other guests_ for coffee."

"It... would be our pleasure," replied Robb, somewhat hesitantly, "and... how is the trade delegation from Casterly Rock?"

"All is well so far," said Daniel. He glanced around before lowering his voice: "listen, I know how you feel about his father, but I can tell you that Lord Tyrion Lannister is a far more decent chap. He has been quite accommodating to our needs thus far. We have 400 people down there right now, between our two colonies, and about a thousand native laborers already recruited. We're planning our next phase of colonial expansion and infrastructure developments across this entire coninent, which is why we brought him up here today."

Robb wasn't pleased at all that a Lion had ridden north with the Falcon, and he still felt bitter about the Scouring Of The Riverlands, of the deaths of his dear lord grandfather and uncle Edmure in the war, of that traitorous Kingslayer and how he had tried to kill his father and brother both... Robb had decided long ago that he did not like the Lions at all, and he was pretty certain that the feeling was mutual. "The Lannisters are still... hostile towards us, aren't they?" he asked, cautiously.

Mustafi replied this time, smiling: "Mr. Stark, regardless of whatever personal sentiments anyone may bear, The Company's policy has _always_ been one championing the cause of peace and cooperation. We have no interests in any further conflict. We have investments now in the North and the Westerlands both; we have no desire to see this continent slip back into the meaningless and wasteful madness that have raged across her over this last year."

 _Yes, after you let thousands of good honorable men die_ , thought Robb, bitterly. He did not understand these people and their strange laws sometimes. But he also knew better than to bite the hand that fed him. The dog who bites his master is usually the first to be put down; that was a lesson that Joffrey failed to learn, and now he paid for it with spending the rest of his worthless life in something the Sky-People called a "psychiatrical health institution", which was just a nicer way of saying "madhouse".

Beside him, Grey Wind growled. Sure enough, up ahead, he could see their, uh, "honorable guests" for the day approaching them, being led by Daniel's assistant, Lady Kelsey Trevino. The trade delegation from the Westerlands consisted of two-and-a-half men: there was Lord Tyrion Lannister himself, of course, Lord Paramount of the Westerlands following the death of his father and the exile of his brother. Accompanying him were two other high-ranking lords of the Westerlands. All three wore simple golden tunics and red capes, and no glittering jewelry or trinkets whatsoever; Tyrion's rule, apparently, was one that valued competence and efficiency over ostentatious displays of obscene wealth and power.

"On behalf of all of House Stark Of Winterfell, I bid you all welcome to the North," began Robb, addressing them all, "Lord Tyrion Of House Lannister Of Casterly Rock, you... honor us with your presence."

"Thank you for your... famed Northern hospitality," replied the Halflord, flatly.

Robb turned to address the other lord standing to Tyrion's right; he was a lean and wolfish man, but well-groomed – certainly more so than the last time Robb had seen him. He began: "I remember you. Captain Bronn, I presume?"

"It's _Lord_ Bronn now," corrected the former sellsword, "Lord Bronn Of The Banefort."

"Lord Bronn is a member of my inner council," added Tyrion, "alas, the late Lord Quentin died leaving no heir save for his daughters Talia and Selyna. Both splendid young ladies. Bronn served me loyally and ably throughout the course of the Riverlands Campaign; it is good for young Talia to have a husband like him, for House Banefort to have a strong patriarch to take up their reins in these trying times."

"My respects to the late Lord Quentin," said Robb, "how did he die?"

"I do apologize for my bluntness, Lord Stark, but I believe _you_ killed him," stated Bronn, "he commanded the Banefort cavalry alongside Ser Marbrand at the Red Fork."

Tyrion shot a quick sideways glare at his retainer, as if he had instructed him beforehand to be on his best behavior. Robb too gritted his teeth, though he was more furious at himself for having forgotten that Lord Quentin Banefort had been among those killed in Jaime's Charge, than at this harmless jape by this lowly sellsword-turned-nobleman.

The second man accompanying Lord Tyrion was a younger and lean-looking man, with brown hair and a bushy mustache. "Lord Raynald Westerling," spoke the man, respectfully, stepping forward quickly to shake Robb's hand and try to defuse the situation.

"Westerling, yes," said Robb, "your father was a good man and one of the finest in all the West, I recall. My heartfelt condolences to your family for your loss."

"I don't blame you, Lord Stark," replied Raynald, reproachfully, "my late lord father argued passionately against Lord Tywin's needless and wasteful war, but alas, fate can be an ever cruel mistress. Who knows, in another reality, we could have been brothers."

"Now that there is peace again in the Realm, perhaps that can be a reality," offered Daryl.

"Lord Raynald here has been nothing but a valuable councilman to me," explained Tyrion, "every house lost someone at the Red Fork, some more than others, but the Crag has been among those to rise again the quickest. Like it or not, Lord Stark, you've changed our entire balance of power in the West."

"You're most certainly welcome," replied Robb, rather icily.

"So... gentlemen," interrupted Mustafi, "shall we proceed to our coffee klatsch or not?"

The parties Northern and Western alike impliedly agreed to put their differences aside for now, but it was apparent the bad taste in each others' mouths was unlikely to go away too soon. As they made their way walking along the footpath leading away from the railway yard, both sides were rather visibly keeping their distance. Kelsey and Kerim accompanied the Lannister delegation, who lead the way, while Daniel hung back to have a little chat just out of earshot of the others.

"Lord Zimmerman," whispered the Young Wolf as he watched the Halflord waddling off, flanked closely by his cronies, "my apologies, but I suspect that you may have had other motives for bringing the Little Lion up here."

"Mr. Stark, I assure you our goal is peace and economic cooperation between House Stark and Lannister," insisted Daniel, "but... you are correct. I did have a thought lately. As you know, our new colonies of New Kovacsburg and Venisandria are..." (Robb noted that Daniel was struggling to keep a straight face as he mentioned the names of their two newest outposts) "...well established now and growing, but we're a little worried about North-West relations, especially given how we're trying to integrate both those regions as part of our Greater Westeros Special Economic Zone. So, we had an idea: you're 16 now, which is the minimum legal marriageable age under UN law. We were wondering if you had perhaps put some thought into a marriage pact with the Westerlands."

Robb was caught offguard by this, and his hand started stinging again. Instead, Daryl answered on his behalf: "Lord Daniel, perhaps you could elaborate a little on your suggestion?"

Daniel shrugged. "Well, you see, Tyrion here has two cousins, Cerenna and Myrielle Lannister; we've hosted them at the colony down there, they're quite lovely young ladies. Lannisters, yes, but completely unlike any of Tywin's branch. There's Lady Alysanne Lefford, who took over Golden Tooth after her father was killed at Red Fork; officially, they're a Riverlands house now, but perhaps some blood ties would facilitate the transition, especially seeing as you are legally the heir to Riverrun too (or what's left of it). And Lord Westerling here has a sister, Lady Jeyne, whom I hear is quite a pretty girl. You might like her."

 _And risk losing everything else?_ , thought Robb, annoyed, _forget how the lions feel, my own banners won't like this at all_. "I... appreciate that you are concerned for my well-being, Lord Zimmerman, but... see, there may be a small complication. I do not think these families will be particularly forthcoming to a man like me, not after the Red Fork."

"I understand, and it was just a possible idea I thought I'd throw out there, see what you think about it," said Daniel, "don't worry, we'll try to keep our options open. Especially now that the Reach has been pacified, and once our next two colonization ships arrive a couple months from now, we'll begin establishing our colonies down there and in Dorne as well, and who knows, we may definitely need some, ahem, _ties_ with the Tyrells. The Martells are fully onboard with us, but the Tyrells are still a little nettled after this whole business with Renly."

Robb said nothing, but nodded bitterly, remembering not too fondly at all back to the whole clusterfuck, pardon his Dornish, that had gone on down there during his campaigns there, and the reason father had sent him back up here, away from the action. Still...

"Ah, we're here," said Daniel, indicating one of the newest buildings at the colony. At the edge of the main compound, at the start of the road to Outpost B, there sat a small but clean and smart-looking structure, the colony's brand new coffeehouse. A bright green sigil depicting what appeared to be a mermaid or a siren of some kind with two tails adorned the entrance, beckoning all to come in. "It looks like everyone else is already waiting for us inside," continued Daniel, "Mr. Stark, let me tell you, you're in for a treat today!"


	7. Eminent Domain

**The Flying Northman (VII)  
**

From the outside, this legendary "coffeehouse" that Robb had heard so much of was a fairly plain structure, made from the same mass-produced steel panels and fixtures as the rest of the colony's buildings; it was not a very large building, and the only distinguishing features of it were the large glass windows and the green sigil that hung above the entrance, welcoming all visitors to enter within those glass swinging doors.

The interior of this coffeehouse was not particularly large, but it seemed to be doing its utter best to combine efficiency with comfort and coziness. At the end of the room, a large counter ran down the length of it, behind which stood three attendants, hard at work; a pleasant aroma of various rich and hearty smells emanating from behind the counter, and the sounds of what he presumed was the machine that ground and brewed this coffee. A brightly-lit glass cabinet showcased some of the pastries available for purchase.

The rest of the room was given to a collection of ten or so different tables, each in a different size or shape, some made of wood and some of gleaming steel. At the other end of the room, six large leather-bound armchairs were arranged around a hearth where burned a cozy fire, albeit, one kept behind another glass panel to prevent errant ashes and cinders from setting either the carpet or the upholstery alight. The sound of casual chatter and clinking of cups and plates dominated the atmosphere, although one could also hear the faint music in the air that was of the type the Sky-People called "Jazz".

Apart from the three attendants working behind the counter, there were some dozen other people gathered in that room, including six seated by the hearth: all Sky-People (as this notion of "coffee culture" was as yet both alien and probably far too expensive as well to any of the smallfolk they had hired), though their clothes betrayed different backgrounds. Some were sitting by themselves, their attention focused entirely on those curious devices called "MyPhones" or "laptops", while others were chatting away with one another.

For some reason, no sooner had they entered when Grey Wind immediately went bounding off towards the group of people gathered 'round the hearth. That was when Robb heard a familiar and thickly accented voice calling out to him: "Kelleh, will ya take a look oo's 'ere!" Robb looked over and smiled as he caught a glimpse of none other than Niall Donnelly and Kelly Adams. Grey Wind had curled himself up at their feet, enjoying all the attention and affection he was getting. Seated with them was Daenerys, cradling her growing daughter in her arms, and Irri. There were two other people sitting with them, who had been chatting with the group just prior to his arrival.

"Lord Stephen Lynn," began Tyrion, striding forward to greet the UN Inspector cordially, "'tis a pleasure to be meeting you again."

"Likewise, Mr. Lannister," replied Stephen.

"Lord Lynn," continued Robb, "I've been meaning to ask you, how is your dear cousin, Lady Kyra? I've heard many great things told of her noble deeds, and I wish to meet her one day."

"Inspector Lynn has been telling me all about her," piped up Daenerys, "she seems quite the fierce and majestic warrior on the battlefield."

Lynn smiled. "Well, if you wish to put it that way. Kyra is on-assignment right now so I can't give specifics, but she's fine right now, and I'll forward your regards onto her."

"Niall Donnelleh," said Niall, introducing himself to the Half-Lord of Casterly Rock, "and this is Kelleh Adams. Do you remember us, Mr. Lannister? We met when ya visited 'ere last Christmas."

"Of course," said Tyrion, "and you must be of House Targaryen, I presume. Daenerys, Daughter of King Aerys, Second Of His Name, the Last Dragon. It is an honor to meet you in person."

Daenerys did not look too thrilled at all to be in the dreaded company of a Lannister, but she swallowed her pride and bore with it. "Likewise, Lord Lannister," she began, continuing to cradle little Drogana in her arms, though Robb could see that she was struggling, both in finding any further nice words to say to the Little Lion, and in keeping her daughter under control (who, it appears, shared her mother's disdain for the Lions but did not quite share her composure and self-restraint). "This is my daughter, Drogana. And this is Irri, my lady-in-waiting."

"I don't believe we've met before," said Robb, quickly trying to change the subject by addressing the final man in the group, who looked like someone from far-off Yi-Ti.

"No, Mr. Stark, but I've read all about _you_ ," replied the man, "you and Mr. Lannister too, and let me say that it's an honor to finally meet all of you." He held out his hand. "The name's Ryan Chang, Company™-Guanlong liaison. I'm just visiting; I'm the co-director of our half of the _Dragon Resurgent_ expedition to Planet EE-L3. And no, the name was neither my idea nor Fred's, if that's what you're wondering."

"A pleasure to meet you too," said Tyrion, shaking his hand.

"And how... is Lord Kovacs?" asked Robb, cautiously, and casting a sideways glance. He was glad to see that at least Lion and Dragon too seemed to share the Wolf's less-than-stellar sentiments towards a certain previous Lord-Director of Autumn's Frontier...

"Oh, he's fine. Staying out of trouble. Yeah," replied Lord Chang, "he and Veni send their regards and hope you're all well. He still remembers this place fondly."

"You had mentioned 'our half' of this expedition," said Tyrion, "and who, may I ask, represents the other half?"

"Dragon Resurgent is actually a joint-venture between us, The Company™, and the Guanlong Corporation," explained Ryan, "and I have to say L3 is quite an amazing world. The people there are already at 20th century levels, but they also practice this incredible sorcery that's all about manipulating the elements. It's pretty cool, and we're working with Guanlong on integrating this magic into our technology. If any of you or anyone you know ever wants to come visit, you definitely should come! Here's my card." He handed out several small squares of parchment to Robb and Tyrion and the others.

Robb took one and looked at it. Engraved upon this so-called "business card" was the golden spiral sigil of The Company, and next to it was a small engraved golden dragon, only that it was like no dragon Robb had ever seen before: with a long and spindly body more like a snake, no wings, and what looked like the whiskers of a cat or a wolf around its snout. Beneath was printed Ryan's name, both in Common Tongue and in another language Robb did not recognize (but he imagined must be this Sky-People script called "Chinese"), and a number that he presumed was for operating one of these Sky-People devices called "telephones". Robb did not know if he was ever going to accept Lord Chang's offer, but thanked him all the same.

"Is Mr. Pegler not joining us today?" asked Daryl quickly.

"Nigel's over in Gondor at the moment," explained Mustafi, "we're still in preliminary planning stages for the Gondor-Arnor Reunification Railway, but that's alright, I'll be happy to take his place today."

"Gentlemen, shall we take a seat?" beckoned Daniel.

"There's fifteen of us here," cautioned Kelly, "I dunno if we're allowed to put several tables together."

"Och, it's totalleh fine, seein' as we, y'know, own the place," remarked Niall.

It took a few minutes to put several of the empty tables and chairs together, but eventually all attendees to today's "coffee klatsch" were seated. Daniel began addressing the entire table, but particularly his guests: "about 180 years ago, The Company™ invested in a small, startup chain of coffeehouses based in what was then called "Seattle" but is now part of Seacouver, Pacific Columbia, that had styled their business model on the coffee culture of Milan, Italy. Today, Starbux offers premium quality delicious overpriced coffee to university students and white collar employees in dire need of their daily fix of caffeination, at over 100,000 locations throughout Earth and the Colonies, including now here at Autumn's Frontier too. Feel free to order anything you want from the menu! I know it all looks overpriced, but don't worry, you're The Company™'s guest today, so it's all on us."

As if on cue, one of the kitchen staff now approached them: a young lady with pierced ears and garishly pink-dyed hair, wearing a green apron that also bore the sigil of this establishment. "Hello everyone!" she began, "my name is Becky, I'll be serving you today!"

"Becky here actually is from Seacouver, but her two helpers behind the counter are both local workers," explained Daniel.

"Sheryl and Mickon," said Becky, proudly, "I call them 'my apprentices'!"

"Well aren't you the most delightful serving wench I've ever seen!" smirked Bronn.

Becky glared at Bronn. Daniel quickly whispered into Bronn's ear: "uh, Mr. Banefort? Sorry, we don't use that language to describe women, it's kinda not, you know, politically correct."

"Not 'politically correct'?" asked Bronn, confused, "wot in Seven Hell's that mean?"

"Our host means that it's rude," muttered Tyrion quickly.

Robb decided he wanted no further part in this, and buried his face into the menu, and was overwhelmed by the sheer variety of items there were. He honestly never knew that there could be so many variations on the basic coffee. "If I may, what's the best item?" he asked, cautiously.

Becky quickly turned to face Robb, and he could see that the cheerful smile on her face was forced. "Well, I'm happy you asked," she said, "my personal favorite is the Flat White Chocolate Mocha poured over White Chocolate Truffles."

"That... sounds good to me," said Robb, trying to be polite, "I shall have one of those."

"Extra whipped cream with that, sir?"

"Uh... sure, why not."

"Alright, one White Mocha Truffle Special, coming right up!" remarked Becky, "and you, sir?"

Tyrion, who was busy looking at the menu, replied: "I've never tried anything like these before, but that item called a... 'Golden Caramelized Honey Latte' sounds like it could be to my liking."

"Of course it would," smiled Lord Zimmerman, "I'll have a regular cappuccino, Venti-sized, extra whip."

"I shall have the same," said Daryl Mollen, quickly. Robb figured that the Lord Mayor was playing it safe by having exactly what their host was having.

"I'll just 'ave a pint o' whatever ale is the specialty up 'ere in the North, thank you," said Bronn.

Becky shook her head. "Sorry sir, we're not licensed to serve alcohol at this outlet, we're not the Netherlands."

"No ale? No booze o' any kind?" remarked Bronn, incredulously, "what kind of establishment is this?"

"Mr. Banefort," explained Stephen Lynn, "we may not be on Earth, but all colonial holdings not under the direct jurisdiction of a national government are instead governed by the UNASEC Code, as per the UNASEC Treaty, and that includes mandatory liquor licensing."

"He'll have the same item I'm having," blurted Tyrion quickly, salvaging the situation.

Lord Raynald Westerling was the next to order: "I've never tried this 'coffee' of yours before, I will just have a simple one, with milk and sugar."

"Dany! What'll you 'ave?" piped up Niall.

Daenerys was shy and quiet, but thoughtful: "I did rather enjoy the Black-And-Red last time; I would like to try that again."

"I have same as Khaleesi," declared Irri.

"Two Strawberry Hot Choco-Lattes, coming right up!" said Becky, "and how about a Junior Chocolate Surprise for little precious here?"

"Gaga!" cried out Drogana.

"D'aw, ain't you the cutest thang?" smiled Becky. She turned to face Stephen. "And you, Mr. Lynn?"

"Regular Mocha, no whip, thanks," said Stephen.

"Refill on the House Chai, thank you," said Kelly.

"Ditto for me too," added Niall.

"Regular Americano please, hold the whip," requested Kelsey

"Turkish, please, with a chocolate stick on the side," said Kerim Mustafi.

"Vanilla Bhakti Chai Latte, thanks," concluded Ryan.

"Alright, folks," said Becky at last, taking noting this all down before heading away, "this will just take a few minutes, so we appreciate your patience!"

"Ladies and gentlemen," began Daniel, addressing the table at large, "we're gathered here today to usher in the beginning of a new age of peace and economic cooperation between the Kingdoms Of The North and Of The Westerlands. It has now been just over one year and one month since we, The Company™, first arrived here upon this world, and already so much has transpired, some of it for ill but much of it for good. But the best thing we can all do right now is to be at peace with what has happened, to remember the fallen, but also to look ahead to a bright new and wondrous future that awaits all of us.

"Whereupon some 13 months ago the land upon which we stand was little more than a small clearing in the Wolfswood, today, Autumn's Frontier stands as a proud vision of progress and industry, a gleaming glimpse into the future we can build if we all work together – Company™, United Nations, Stark, Lannister, Targaryen, and soon, hopefully, the rest of the great houses too. At present, Autumn's Frontier is home to some 300 Company™ personnel, 100 UN personnel, 800 colonists, and over 2,500 locally-hired laborers. Autumn's Frontier has become the primary economic and industrial powerhouse of this entire continent, creating the jobs and revenue and consumer goods that are rapidly transforming the North into a proud model for all nations on this world to follow. And we owe this all to the special friendship that The Company has cultivated over this last year with the great houses of the North.

"Today, we are also celebrating the third month of our two newest colonies, those of New Kovacsburg, and its satellite seaport colony of Venisandria. Together, they have a population of 200 Company™ personnel, 200 colonists, and nearly a thousand native laborers.

"We have achieved much in these last few months, and now that the war is over and peace returned across the land, we shall strive to continue to push for ever greater progress and modernization, to integrate this world into the rest of the galactic economy, to continue to build better worlds. For we are The Company, and we are here for you, and here for good."

Niall clapped, half-heartedly and mockingly, at the conclusion of Daniel's speech. It was then that Becky's "apprentice" Sheryl arrived, carrying a large tray loaded with all fifteen drinks, in all manner of differently shaped glasses and mugs, including one little so-called "sippy-cup" for Drogana.

"Well, here's to us, and to a better future!" declared Daniel, once all the beverages had been distributed to their respective recipient. Robb took a sip from his own piping hot mug... and winced and nearly gagged. The drink was sickeningly sweet and unnatural. Over this last year, he had taken a liking to the Sky-People and their bitter but invigorating "coffee", but _this_ was less the coffee he had come to know than some monstrous concoction of cream and sugar and chocolate. There was just so much cream on top that it was impossible to reach the actual drink beneath it without angling his mug such that he ended up spilling some of the cream on his face.

He reached for a nearby napkin and tried to wipe it off his face and beard as discreetly as possible. He suddenly became aware that at the other side of the table, Drogana was watching him... and giggling. Robb glared at her. Daenerys took note of this, and though she kept her serene composure, he could see that deep down, she too was laughing with her daughter. Tyrion also noticed what was going on, and shook his head. Next to him, Daniel merely rolled his eyes. He looked down, as if in desperation looking to Grey Wind for help. The big direwolf was curled up on the floor at his feet, sleeping and being absolutely not helpful at all to his master.

 _Gods, what's happened to me?_ , he cursed to himself, feeling greatly embarrassed. He had conquered the South and lain waste to entire armies, and now here he was having trouble figuring out the best way to consume one ruddy little drink and making a mess of himself. Still, he tried his best to appear polite and composed, and tried to smile when his host asked him if he was enjoying (or at least not regretting) his choice of refreshment.

"So..." began Daniel, getting up, "I think we should move on with business. Mr. Mustafi, will you do the honors?"

"Yes sir," replied Kerim as he stood up and turned to address the table at large. "Ladies and gentlemen, we've divided the proceedings of this meeting down into separate themes of (1) transportation and communications infrastructure, (2) natural resources development and mineral extraction, (3) agriculture, forestry, fisheries, and ecological stewardship, (4) colonial settlement and urban planning, (5) financial sector development and trade and customs, (6) education, and (7) diplomatic relations and the common defense.

"I would like to begin with (1) on the development of transportation and communications. One of our primary concerns at the moment is this major bottleneck that the issue of transportation presents to us. All movement of people and goods between Autumn's Frontier and New Kovacsburg is currently via aircraft. However, use of our Falcon and Valkyrie shuttles, while fast, is also expensive in terms of fuel consumption, and requires the use of a valuable piece of military hardware that could be put to better use elsewhere. For these reasons, one of our top priorities right now is the establishment of a railway linking our colonies. We eventually plan to construct our own maglev lines, of course, but that's still years and years away. In the mean time, we would be happy to finance the construction of a conventional railway between the North and the Westerlands.

"As you know, we're as yet still at least months before King Stannis agrees to authorizing the Kingsline. However, given the growth of our new colony of New Kovacsburg down in the Westerlands, we feel that the establishment of a railway link between Autumn's Frontier and New Kovacsburg should not wait any further. The Autumn-Winter Railway has only been in operation now for over a couple weeks, and yet we've seen it bring immense economic boosts to the volume and speed of goods and passengers that can be moved across this region.

"At this moment in time, we have completed nearly 300 miles of track, connecting Autumn's Frontier with Winterfell and Deepwood Motte. Whereas once the journey from Winterfell to the sea involved spending weeks trekking through the Wolfswood, now the entire round-trip journey can be made in half a day.

We have, at present, one _Isambard_ -class track-laying machine, and some two hundred local laborers and ten Company™ engineers who have worked on constructing this line. And we are now planning a further 400 miles that would connect Winterfell with White Harbor. It would raise additional challenges, such as the need to bridge the White Knife in at least two points, as well as additional supporting infrastructure to support the longer train journey. But Lord Wyman Manderly is willing to throw the economic weight of White Harbor behind this endeavor. We can have this extension of the line completed within three months.

"The plan we wish to lay before you, however, is far more ambitious than either project. It would call for the construction not only of the track itself, but of all the attendant infrastructure: construction of coaling stations and water towers every few hundred miles, as well as outposts to station guards to patrol the lines and workmen to maintain it, and of course, bridges to cross the numerous rivers between here and New Kovacsburg.

"Our _Isambard_ -class machine can assemble and lay up to 20 miles of track in one day on a prepared surface. However, there are other factors that could complicate and prolong construction, such as logistics and terrain. For example, the swampy terrain of the Neck. While there is already a road through the region, a railway is substantially heavier and thus needs sturdier foundations than a simple road. The other major geographical obstacle would be the Western Mountains. While we could follow the Gold Road, there are parts of this route where we would have to drill and dynamite extensively in order to accommodate the curvature of the track. That is why we have proposed an alternate route that avoids the mountains altogether: our railway would instead follow the coastline. This would have the advantage of connecting most of the coastal settlements like The Crag and Banefort."

Robb noticed Lords Bronn and Raynald nod approvingly.

"Other than these two natural obstacles," continued Mustafi, "much of the land of the North and the Riverlands is flat, so we would simply build in a straight line. The only other natural obstacles would be the rivers, but would of course bridge those easily using prefabricated 'Bailey bridges'.

"Gentlemen, we have the technology and the engineers. What we would need from all of you are the manual labor needed to assist in this task, as well as soldiers to defend it, and finally, the land rights we need to build it, the promise that each of your individual vassals will not try to impede such a vital project indispensable to the future of the nation. Grant us all of these, and we could be looking at merely a two-day train journey separating Winterfell from Casterly Rock within this calendar year."

"And what of the Freys?" asked Daryl Mollen, "they won't take too kindly to the construction of a new bridge across the Fork and all the tolls that will cost them."

Robb looked at the map, and agreed. The proposed railway would be crossing the Green Fork not too far south of the Twins...

"These 'Freys' would be fools not to recognize the value in climbing aboard the metaphorical modernization train with us," shot Ryan, "and in any case, I believe there is a compelling argument to be made here for the state to be able to exercise its inherent powers of _eminent domain_." He cast a glance at Inspector Lynn. "All of this within reasonable bounds, of course," he hastily added.

"Ol' Walder won't like this at all," noted Mollen, glumly.

"Oh, just leave that to us," said Mustafi, with a cheerful wink, "all we need is a proclamation from Lord Brynden, the legal head-of-state of the Riverlands, calling upon all Riverlands houses to assist in the creation of this railway as part of their duties in the name of the state. We shall happily take care of the rest."


	8. Our House

**Chapter VIII: Our House**

Maesters Luwin and Jeremy were doing their absolute best to try to model the "Academy Of The North" on the Sky-People's own schools, or at least the North's version. Every morning, the Starks would dine with the rest of the Northern young lords and ladies, then came morning classes on five days out of the week, then lunch, then afternoon classes on three days of the week, and then the rest of the day was free before everyone would dine together once more at dinner.

Morning lessons focused on matters of The North and the rest of The Realm too; they were all schooled in the same common room, where either Luwin or else one of the other Maesters would lecture them on things like the history and lore of The Realm and all its great houses, poetry, arithmetic, as well as even some Valyrian as well. Honestly, Arya didn't quite understand the point of studying a dead language like Valyrian because the only other person who could probably speak it that she could think of was the Targaryen princess living at the colony. Luwin, of course, insisted that what was important here wasn't actually speaking Valyrian so much as was learning how to learn it. That, and he had also insisted that Old Valyria had left a wealth of art, literature, poetry, and philosophy that was worth celebrating and teaching in their original tongue, and he talked to no end of praise of all the precious Valyrian texts that the Citadel and the Great Library Of Oldtown had in their possession.

Syrio too agreed with Luwin's point, pointed out to her that Braavosi and all the other tongues of the Free Cities ultimately came from Valyrian, so an understanding of its grammar would be helpful if she ever wished to travel there. Maybe, but Arya frankly would have preferred to learn the Old Tongue which was probably a lot more useful for the Northerners. The problem was that all their Maesters were of the South, that, and Luwin had admitted that without a proper "grammatica" like Valyrian or the Common Tongue, it would have been difficult to administer their exams at the end of the semester.

But the afternoon lessons were what Arya truly treasured. These class sessions were reserved for topics not of The Realm - that usually meant of the Sky-People, though there were also occasional classes held on these other strange worlds that, by Sky-People standards, were pretty close (though still impossibly far away in Arya's mind). This was an especially fun class for Luwin too and the other Maesters and even Lord Daryl Mollen too would join the class and sit down among them as students, and listen on and be just as confused and lost and enthralled and amazed to hear all about this wider universe they all shared. To this end, Robb had made arrangements with Lord Daniel that every couple weeks or so, one of the Sky-People would volunteer his or her time to come down to Winterfell for a couple days to teach. This was easier than ever before thanks to the daily train service that ran non-stop between Autumn's Frontier and Winter Town.

The tutors who came from the colony could take different shapes and forms and spoke of just about anything. Several young men and women and sometimes dressed in ways that often made the grownups look disapprovingly at them, or older ones who still dressed strangely but at least did not draw the same ire of the grown-ups. Honestly, given just how many Sky-People were coming to visit Winter Town now on that train, and how some of their clothing ideas like jackets and hairstyles had become all the rage among the smallfolk now, Arya guessed that eventually mother and the others would have to relent.

Arya would sit there in the afternoon, her elbows on her desk, her cheeks resting on her palms, staring on dreamily, hearing the things they had to say and thinking about just what life must be like on Earth and also on these worlds too. Robb had requested that the lessons all be in "useful" fields like science and engineering and medicine and economics, and that's how these lessons usually began before ending up more as personal stories and life-journeys from each of these people - which, in a way, was probably for the better, for it really did open up her eyes and the others (she supposed) to strange but wondrous places these people came from and to attach a face she could identify with on these strangers.

When class was not being held in the afternoon, instead, they would hold sporting days. Even the girls. Robb had been adamant that encouraging physical strength and athletics among men and women both was key to building a healthy nation, saying something about an ancient Sky-People realm called "Sparta" or something like that when one of the other lords had questioned him over this. Most of the other girls would have preferred to have stayed inside and learnt to weave or play the lyre, but Arya and a few others were more than delighted to play. Particularly as this was one of the few times mother would permit her to wear those Sky-People clothes with their _scandalously_ short sleeves and leggings.

The girls would play "football" (or "soccer" as some Sky-People called it), while the boys would play a rougher and tougher game, a true mansport by the name of "rugby" (or "football" as it was called by the same Sky-People who called the other football "soccer"... Arya was _very_ confused by all of this). Well, at least until there had been an incident on the field where Ramsay had hurt young Ethan Forrester, and that had taken a right piss out of everyone, had even sparked off a heated verbal spat between the one Dreadfort man and the two Ironrath retainers of Ethan and Talia Forrester. Ramsay had claimed it was all an innocent accident, but Arya just wanted to punch that shit-eating grin of his. And now Robb, furious that he would have to settle this matter between Lords Forrester and Bolton, had decreed that there would be no more rugby and now the boys would have to play "football" just as the girls did - much less biting and headbutting in that sport, right?

It was still autumn, winter proper would not be upon them for another year at least, but already the days were noticeably shorter. Nevermind that, though, Winterfell within glowed more brightly than ever before thanks to the "electric lighting" acquired from the colony. And it wasn't just the lighting that now lent a wholly new ambience to Arya's bed chambers that she would not have recognized a year ago. Now, the walls were adorned with several large posters, both those instant portrait "photographs" as well as a few paintings and a few that were some blend of the two.

She had the poster of her Lord Father, seated upon the Iron Throne, Ice unsheathed and gripped tightly in his hands; he looked deep in contemplation. This was the photograph that Lord Kovacs had taken over a year ago and the one by far she treasured the most, no matter what others spoke of the previous Lord Of Autumn's Frontier. Next to that, there was another poster Lord Kovacs had given her, showing the faces of four Sky-People against a black background, two men and two women, and beneath them the letters: "A-B-B-A". On the other side of that, a large poster showed what appeared to be a rainbow emerging from a white triangle. There were other posters as well, but she didn't feel like taking the time to describe them all right now; now that would just take too much time!

At that moment, Lady lay down lazily on the floor; the great direwolf yawned, showing off her teeth but otherwise seemingly bored and oblivious. The four girls sat on Arya's bed, all listening in intently as Arya fiddled about with the strange but wonderful music and moving pictures on that most treasured of gifts, that little "MyPhone" that Lord Frederick Kovacs had given her.

"Ooh, that was a wonderful song, I loved it!" said Little Lyanna Mormont, excitedly, as the song ended, "I love how it has both fast bits and slow bits as well! Though I couldn't understand what she was singing."

"Yes, that was a strange tongue," agreed Jeyne Poole, "what does _Neunundneunzig Luftballons_ mean?"

"I dunno," shrugged Arya, "but I do know the Sky-People call this tongue 'German' and that they _also_ speak it on one of the other worlds near to us, the one they call 'The Empire Of Man'."

"Interesting. Well these 'Ger-Men', they make good music!" added Lyanna.

"True, though most of the rest of their music I've heard is a lot more... aggressive," remarked Arya, "must be a cultural thing. If half of what I heard about their 'Empire Of Man' is true!"

"Sister, I rather enjoyed that," spoke up Sansa who had been quiet until now, "will you play us another song?"

Arya smiled. There was a time not too long ago when they simply could not stand one another. She could even remember well that day in King's Landing when Sansa snatched her MyPhone from her very hands and threw it to the ground and stepped on it. 'Twas a good thing that the devices of the Sky-People (or at least those of House Kovacs) were durable and built to last. But much had changed in the last year, and it turns out that Sansa's beloved golden prince was naught more than the monstrous spawn of the incest between the Queen and her brother.

And now all three of those lying lions were out rotting somewhere in this "Empire Of Man" she had heard so much about (most of it negative - don't get her wrong, she admired the few tales she had heard from Bran, of their warriors and their wise Emperor and their great strength and courage, but only against monsters and snarks and grumpkins that sounded from right out of her nightmares! She worried for Bran, but from the sound of it, he was doing well there, and only wished that none of his tales ever made it to the ears of poor mother).

That, and the next song on this "playlist" was one of her favorites, so of course she obliged.

 _"My my,  
At Waterloo, Napoleon did surrender.  
Oh yeah,  
And I have met my destiny in quite a similar way.  
The history book on the shelf,  
Is always repeatin' itself!" _

Just then, Lady stood up and barked. A second later, a reply bark was heard, and the door opened and in rushed Grey Wind. The two direwolves played and pawed away at each other. And then a couple seconds after him entered Robb, looking a little sullen in the face. He stared at the four girls, quite clearly not expecting to find his youngest sister hosting a small party in her room at this time of the night. And all the while, the music continued to play...

 _"Waterloo! I was defeated, you won the war!  
Waterloo! Promise you'll love me forever more!  
Waterloo! Can't escape if I wanted to!  
Waterloo! Finally facin' my Waterloo."_

The music stopped abruptly as Arya turned it off. Robb was usually perfectly fine with leaving his sisters to their own devices, so if he was up here to scold them, that could only be because mother had asked him to do so.

"Sisters, Ladies Mormont, Poole," he began, "apologies for this intrusion, but our Lady Mother asked me to... _politely check up_ on you and remind you all know what time of the night it is."

Sansa was the first to speak, blushing slightly, "Sorry, dear brother. I hope that mother isn't too disturbed... again."

Robb turned and looked behind him to make sure no-one else was there. Then he turned back to face them and dropped his voice to a whisper: "I'll tell her that I've put you all to bed now, but you have to promise me that you'll turn off the lights and turn down your music a little. I believe the strength of the sound can be adjusted on these Sky-People devices, if I recall correctly."

"Will do, brother!" replied Arya. She smiled. Her brother smiled and winked back at her, and then he called out to Grey Wind. The direwolf was reluctant to leave his littermate so soon but obeyed. Once the door was closed again, Jeyne went to switch off the main light while Arya turned on the smaller light built into her "MyPhone". She then turned down the volume a little and played the next song on her list...

 _"Father wears his Sunday best,_  
 _Mother's tired, she needs a rest,_  
 _The kids are playing around upstairs._  
 _Sister's dreaming in her sleep,_  
 _Brother's got a date to keep,_  
 _He can't hang around..."_


	9. Having Your Cake And Eating It Too

_**Writer's Notes:** at long last, this story continues, and I do intend to continue it. This chapter includes references to several events that occurred at the end of Book2  & 3, although a reading of those isn't necessary to enjoy the overall chapter, which is more about focusing on one character in particular. _**  
**

* * *

**The Flying Northman (IX):**

 **Having Your Cake And Eating It Too**

It was now May in the two-hundred-and-ninety-ninth year since her great ancestor Aegon The Conqueror was crowned Lord Of The Seven Kingdoms and Master Of The Realm, or November in the year 2155 of the Sky-People's "Common Era" calendar. Time had not stood still for her, and today she would be celebrating her fifteenth nameday.

Dany sighed. To think it had been a year now since she had first learnt of her pregnancy on her fourteenth nameday, back on the endless rolling grassy plains of the Dothraki Sea. Life with the Khalassar had not exactly been an easy ride - she could remember how badly her body had ached and pained and itched from those first few months with the Khal, whether from her near-constant time spent on horseback, or from how roughly he would make love to her, or from countless bites from fleas or horse-flies. Sometimes, before she had grown an iron stomach, what food and drink there was would make her violently sick.

Compared to the Khalassar, living here at Autumn's Frontier was the epitome of luxury. For the last few months, she had lived with Niall and Kelly. Their house was a modest cottage by Sky-People standards, so they claimed; it was one of several constructed over the last few months as part of a "residential development" to house their workers as well as paying colonists from their homeworld, but what it lacked in size, it made up for ten-fold in other amenities.

The first thing about the Sky-People anyone ever noticed was just how impeccably clean they were - everything from their clothing down to how shiny their devices were, and their homes were no exception. The cottage was built of wood, cut into smooth, straight beams, and heavily refined and polished to a glossy finish, and completely unlike the rough-hewn logs and planks used almost everywhere else. The house had hot running water and flushing toilets, bright "electric" lighting and smokeless "electric" cooking. There were machines for everything, for washing the clothes and drying them, for scrubbing the dishes and for keeping food cold and fresh, or crushing ice into little cubes for serving with drinks.

And Niall and Kelly too were some of the most generous people you could ask to meet. These two had gone out of their way to welcome her and Irri and Drogana into their home, to make sure they were comfortable and try to teach them how to live like Sky-People. They had even gone so far as to remember what day it was today, and to this end had organized to hold a small so-called "birthday party" for her at their home.

She was sitting there, on the couch, dressed in a smart, deep crimson casual dress, with black leggings, a belt, and shining white sneakers. Kelly was sitting next to her on one side; Irri was sitting on one of the chairs opposite her, Drogana bouncing up and down on her lap. Niall was in the corner kitchenette, back turned towards her, working on something. Music could faintly be heard playing over the house's "stereo system"; Dany could recognize it as... well, what she called "Fredmusik" (she could thank the little Stark girl, Arya, for implanting that word in her head, as much as she hated the man it was named for), 'cept that it was actually from Niall's collection - namely, his favorite performing troupe, the one known as... _Duran Of Duran_ (?). This song in particular was something about a hungry wolf.

But all the rest of the guests in attendance were Niall and Kelly's own friends and co-workers. She looked around her. There was Doctor Katherine Chakwas here; Dany was fond of the good doctor, as it had been she who had saved her life and nursed her back to health when she was first brought here (if against her will), and it was also she who had delivered Drogana. There was Ryan Chang here as well, and some new faces too - Miss Miranda Riversong, and two friends of hers, Max and his father Dino, the geologist-turned-sorcery-expert Robin van Der Merwe, and another friend of Niall's who introduced himself as "Bob from Accounting" (there was little much else to say about him). Even the advocate, Lady Sarah Carson, was present; she had come here on an official inspection tour of the colonies and Niall had seen fit to invite her over - because, apparently, the one thing every fifteen-year-old maiden desired these days was for a lawyer to be present at their nameday celebration.

And here was perhaps the one thing that Vaes Dothrak had that Autumn's Frontier did not. Life on horseback was hard and oft-times brutal, but at no point did Dany ever feel _alone_. She had had Irri as well as Jhiqui and Doreah by her side. She had had Ser Jorah, her Bear Knight, and her three blood riders, all sworn to protect her. She had had her brother Viserys - for all the good and bad both that had come of him. And above all, she had had her Sun And Stars there. And whatever else their marriage had been, when he was by her side, she had felt she could take on the world, vanquish any foe, ride to the ends of this world and back with nothing to fear.

Here at Autumn's Frontier, at all times but especially today, there were always new faces and familiar ones, but the irony of it was that no matter how many people she surrounded herself with (or, more accurately, no matter how many people _Niall and Kelly_ surrounded her with), at the end of it, she still felt very much by herself.

She tried to focus on the others who were around her. Dany had met Ryan Chang once before, the last time he had visited Autumn's Frontier. His face and features reminded her of the various merchants of far-off Yi-Ti she used to see in the market of Vaes Dothrak, except that unlike them, Ryan's face was clean and polished and his face bore none of the scars nor marks from the long journey across the length of Essos. She had taken a particular interest in his tie; a golden dragon embroidered on red silk - or, at least, what Ryan called a "dragon". It looked only vaguely like what Dany would have considered a "dragon" to be - it was longer, with a body more like a snake's, with antlers like a deer and a mane like a lion's and long whiskers too, and it had no wings (not that Dany had ever seen one before, so she thought, but she had read enough about them in her own family's histories to recognize the differences).

Miranda Riversong was a quiet one; Niall and Kelly had told Dany well ahead of time to be careful and tactful around her, for she had recently suffered a personal tragedy, and that she had come out here to Autumn's Frontier because her friends had insisted that a break would be good for her. The moment Dany met her in person, she could tell right away that someone very near and dear to her had been horribly taken away from her - it was hard to explain the feeling, though Dany unfortunately knew and understood it well. So she instead tried to skirt that topic and instead ask her other things - about the world she came from, and the one she was now working upon. It was fascinating; Miri came from a land called "Middle Zealand" (or something to that effect) and her blood was Maori - they reminded Dany a lot of the Dothraki, and it was strange and yet enlightening to be reminded that the Sky-People, despite all their claims of being superior and whatnot, were once just as savage as vicious. Miri had been working on the world they called "L-Five", but now she was in transition to a new assignment elsewhere.

Miranda had come here with two of her friends - Max, who was her co-worker from Beautiful Horizon, and his own father, Dino, who had come out here as part of a "vacation" to celebrate his retirement (Dany was still very much trying to wrap her head around this concept of how Sky-People lived and worked). To be entirely honest, Max was not very interesting, but Dino, now he was quite a character. Older but still very much adventurous, always on the hunt for new things to do and try. Though if Dany were being entirely honest to herself, the one thing she did not quite like about him was his smell - a pungent musk that, according to Niall, came from some so-called "pipeweed" he had been smoking just before coming to the party.

There was nothing much at all to be said about "Ser Bob Of Accounting", other than that he had what was probably the most easily forgettable and uninteresting face and voice that Dany had ever seen or heard.

"Did they ever find out what happened to, uh, Mr. Tremblay?" asked Bob, keeping his voice low so that Miranda would not hear him. "All I recall was that he disappeared after he went rogue."

Dany did not know or what this "Mr. Tremblay" was, but judging from his hushed tone and occasional glances at where Miri was standing, talking to Robin, it must have been something upsetting to her. Perhaps it was even he who had been the one who had brought about her loss? Dany tried to follow along.

"Yes and no," replied Sarah, "they did find bike tracks leading to Mordor, but that's it. The trail goes cold, and probably will stay that way; if he was around there when that volcano blew, any trace of him is probably blown to hell and back."

"I hope so," frowned Ryan, "that's the least that asshole deserves after what he pulled. God, to think he was helping that White Wizard bastard? That makes me sick. If he's alive, he'd damn better not show his face on L3!"

"Gaga!" gurgled Drogana, as if in agreement.

Sarah turned her attention towards the babe, and smiled. "Awe, ain't you the sweetest lil' thang?"

"Khaleesi child bites," warned Irri.

"If that's the case, sounds to me like she'd make a great lawyer all grown up!" laughed Sarah.

The meaning of Lady Carson's jape was lost on Irri, although she too laughed along with her - sometimes humor can be infectious like that. Dany smiled weakly and briefly; come to think of it, apart from that one little nip on the train, Drogana had actually turned out to be a well-behaved and quiet child, which thankfully made the challenge of raising her a little easier. She used to take Drogana to the medical center at the main colony every week for a medical check up, and from what she was told, her daughter was a perfectly fine and healthy babe, absolutely nothing to be concerned about. The crib and the little toys and books on "maternity" that The Company had given her were also helpful, and Niall and Kelly would help out too half the time - Dany had to wonder if the two of them were treating this as practice for when the two of them planned to have one of their own one day.

But of more interest to her at the moment was the conversation the others were having, something about the goings-on on one of these other worlds, about this "Mr. Tremblay" who was of some significant relationship to Lady Riversong, of this land Mordor, and this gigantic volcanic eruption that sounded vaguely like The Doom Of Old Valyria. She had heard much about what was going on over on that world, like the epic battle where the legendary warrioress Lady Kyra Lynn (of relation, apparently, to the Lord Inspector Stephen Lynn) had vanquished both the White Wizard as well as this Witch-King of something or other... but somehow, this little detail about "Mr. Tremblay" was new to her. She must find out more.

"On a related note," added Bob in his continued attempts to remain relevant, "man, I have to say, that satellite video they took of when Mordor went up in smoke... I mean, _damn_. That was _epic_. Though I hope all that ash thrown up into the atmosphere doesn't affect the climate of L5 too badly, that would sure suck for the natives and our colonists there. You ever heard about 'The Year Without A Summer'? When Krakatoa erupted?"

"Actually, Bob, that was Tambora," corrected Sarah. She took a sip from her drink.

"Okay. Tambora... that's the same one that erupted again in the 80's, right?" said Bob, "the one with that British 747 jumbo jet that got in trouble?"

"Which 80's?" asked Doctor Chakwas, raising an eyebrow.

"The _only_ one," laughed Niall.

"I'm pretty sure that one was Galunggang," said Ryan, "but whatever, Indonesia's got a lot of volcanoes." He turned to Dany. "They're kind of like Earth's own Valyria when you think about it."

"Nah, that's probably Italy," added Bob, "they got ancient Rome, volcanoes, and hot women too. Plus have you seen their economy lately? Totally The Doom right there, I'm telling you."

"Ahem! So to answer your original question, _Bob_..." began Miranda, from where she was sitting - turns out, she had been hearing the whole thing all along, in spite of (or perhaps because of) Bob's best efforts at subterfuge. "...no, not at all. Surprisingly. We've been monitoring the weather closely and it's fine so far. It's... well, it's almost as if the planet itself were self-regulating."

Alright, now Dany was starting to get a little annoyed. That these Sky-People were constantly chattering away about things they very well knew she could not understand was one thing, but moreover, she was under the impression that this was _her_ nameday party, and thus, that they would be making a little more of an effort to include _her_ in the conversation. Were all Sky-People nameday celebrations like this? People sitting around and then talking about random things not related at all to the person they were supposed to be celebrating? Or perhaps it was just becoming increasingly clear that this party wasn't really for her after all, but for Niall and Kelly!

Bob sunk back into his chair, and turned to face Dany. "So, hey, Dany, how are you finding classes?" he asked.

Dany blinked. Finally a question directed to her, and it was not even one she could answer. "I'm... I'm sorry," she replied, "what do you mean?"

"Dany's takin' a break right now," interjected Niall, "but we're planning to enroll her at the colony school, along with the other colonists' kids, once she feels she's ready. We're in no rush here."

"Oh, right," muttered Bob, sheepishly, "sorry. I was confused. I thought UNICEF guidelines mandated that all colonial kids attend school K thru 12."

"You are partly correct," added Sarah, "but UNFPA standards regarding the health and well-being of teenage mothers and their newborn infants stipulate that a woman under the age of 18 is entitled to up to 6 months of temporary protection and relief from certain regulatory, financial, and contractual obligations, following the birth of a child - a law specifically introduced to afford greater legal protections to underage mothers. Furthermore, the UNASEC Code does provide for deferment of enforcement of UN regulations in certain situations, and provides a multi-factor test for determining the basis upon which such decision shall be made. And besides, if all else fails, an executive order by the requisite authority can suspend enforcement of said rules on a temporary and _ad hoc_ basis. Inspector Lynn knows Ms. Targaryen's case very well, he worked with us closely when we were negotiating with the UNSC for the resolution of the Westeros Succession Crisis, and all of our preliminary matters regarding the care and education of Ms. Targaryen here were approved by him."

"Basically, we're her legal guardians for now," added Kelly.

"It's of course a lot more complicated than that," said Sarah, "legal title is held by The Company™ as a corporate entity, but equitable title has been entrusted to Mr. Donnelly and Ms. Adams. But yes, that's the short way of putting it. And yes, this legal relationship can be terminated at the discretion..."

Dany did not want to listen to this anymore. She had started to grow quite sick and tired and frustrated with this "United Nations" and their confusing laws. She still had not quite gotten over Lord Kovacs' falsatious promise that the Sky-People would put her on the Iron Throne, as was hers by right of name and blood - an act which might actually have redeemed them in her eyes.

All these rules and regulations - so confusing. No wonder the Sky-People required specially-trained individuals the likes of Lady Carson and others just to keep track of all of them. There were regulations on everything, on what "citizenship" a Sky-child could claim based on where they were born (she still had Drogana's "birth certificate" with her and only because they had insisted to her that it was important); there were regulations on where and when a Sky-child had to go to one of their Sky-schools, on how and when their flying ships and steam trains could run, on why this "StarBux" drinking establishment of theirs could not have served ale to a paying customer; on how many trees they could cut down, on what taxes were paid when and how, and on how a land that rightfully belonged to someone could instead be appropriated by someone else in what essentially amounted to _legal robbery_ \- and there was even, apparently, a regulation somewhere, some place, that explained why she could not be the rightful Queen of the Realm, but that instead the honor had to fall to the Usurper's brother!

And to each and every regulation, there was always an exception, too, apparently, and it was these exceptions that Dany had come to learn The Company were simply _masterful_ at exploiting to such a degree that Dany wondered if many of these rules served any useful purpose in the first place. Just like how their devices, their television and their "Wild Cat" vehicles and their "Falcon" flying ships, could be explained away as "little machines within big machines", so too was their entire society one that functioned on "little rules within big rules". It was mind-boggling and confusing and frustrating, and Dany wondered if a great nation like the Sky-People could ever exist without all these rules. If she were queen, oh, she could promise that things would be _far_ simpler! She was still trying to wrap her head around this idea of "democracy" and how a nation ruled by the unruly smallfolk did not simply cave in at the first gust of wind...

"God, stop it, will ya!" shouted Niall from the kitchen, still facing away from them, "look, yer borin' the poor birthday gal outta her bloody mind!" He turned around, and revealed something large being held by his two hands. He was smiling. "Besides, it's time to 'ave some cake!" With that, Niall began to stride right at where Dany was sitting, and as he took the first step, he began to bawl loudly... _"Happy birth, uh, nameday to you!"_

 _"Happy nameday to you!"_ replied everyone else, singing in unison.

Dany said nothing but stood still as Niall stopped and placed the object onto the table right in front of her. She took a good, long look at it.

It was a large chocolate cake (the Gods bless Niall and Kelly for having remembered the sweet tooth for chocolate that she had grown these last few months). Fifteen little candles were arrayed in a circle around the edge of it, and in the center of it, wings outstretched, three gaping maws snapping furiously, shooting bolts of lightning, a three headed dragon was drawn out in strawberry icing with little tracing lines drawn out in lines of white and milk chocolate, against a rich dark chocolate background.

Dany, though, was quick to notice too that it was not exactly the same as her house sigil. As she would find out much later, Niall had "down-loaded" from "the net" a picture of someone called a "King Ghidorah". Who was he? Probably another character in these Sky-People's moving pictures. She knew there and then that Niall and Kelly had gone to great effort to have this cake baked and decorated for her. She appreciated it, and yet she was frustrated and angry at it at the same time for some reason. Ugh, what was wrong with her?

 _"Happy Nameday to you!"_ everyone around her continued to sing.

And then the realization dawned on her. Maybe this was what was eating her inside out. For sitting here in Niall and Kelly's living room, surrounded by complete strangers... this cake here was probably the only place in the entire world left where the dragon sigil of House Targaryen was still proudly shown. And it wasn't even a proper Targaryen dragon for that matter, but instead that other dragon, the one called "King Ghidorah"!

For thousands of years, until the arrival of the Sky-People, Old Valyria was the greatest nation this world had ever seen. 'Twas her own blood who had, many long centuries ago, first tamed the dragons, learnt to master the great crafts and sorcery, laid waste to Old Ghis and conquered the Rhoyne, built the great Valyrian roads and united all of Essos under one banner. And even when The Doom had finally come to rip their land asunder, her ancestors had crawled out from the ashes and fought on. From his keep in Dragonstone, her forefather had rode forth breathing fire and blood, uniting the Seven Kingdoms some two-hundred-and-ninety-nine years ago, and began the greatest age this continent had ever known - again, at least until the arrival of the Sky-People.

And now, she knew, she was the very last of either, of House Targaryen, and probably of all of the noble, pure blood of Old Valyria... and now she was reduced to little more than a house guest to the very same people she knew bore the responsibility for having caused the deaths of her Sun And Stars, and of the brother who had protected her all her life. If she was a dragon at all, she was a dragon with its wings clipped, teeth and talons filed down, a dragon chained to her gilded cage, growing soft and docile on a diet of watching Sky-People television and reading Sky-People books and listening to Sky-People "Fredmusik".

By the way, what was that name they called her by? "Asset Number Two"? Ah yes, that was it. Oh, how she was _furious_ when someone had let it slip in front of her, casually, that this was how Lord Kovacs and probably many others had thought of her - little more than a pawn in whatever game of chess they were playing, yet another coin to be gambled over and away.

And for this reason and others, the Sky-People, no matter how gentle and kind people like Niall and Kelly were to her, would always remain a force that confused and confounded her, shook her beliefs to her very core, angered her immensely and positively _horrified_ her - especially this idea slowly gnawing away at the back of her head, that the last blood of Old Valyria was fated to live and die out with a whimper in obscurity and complete powerlessness.

Life with the Khalassar was hard; it was a world with few rules and where only the strongest survived. But at least for as long as she had lived with them, she had found meaning in her role as Khaleesi, and under the protective arms of her Sun And Stars.

Before that, life with Viserys had been ever harder, a daily struggle of life or death, never knowing when one day, they might have to have dropped everything and run. But at least she always found some comfort in the dreams and hopes (and, dare she say it, _delusions_ ) of Targaryen grandeur that he had constantly fed to her, and the hope that one day, he would return to the Realm as its rightful king, and she in turn could return to that little house with the red door.

In her and her brother's ignorance, she had found some semblance of peace and bliss, believing that they were always in the right, that throughout the Realm, the smallfolk continued to gather in secret and raise glasses and prayers to the day the dragons would make their triumphant return and repay the favor in fire and blood to those who had so dearly wronged them.

Now, instead, she had gotten to travel to Westeros, to have met the Starks of Winterfell in person, and now she had been forced to learn the awful truth about the extent of her father's madness, and about what happened between Rhaegar and Lyanna, and to learn that Ned Stark was never the "Usurper's Dog" nor were the Starks the monsters that Viserys had made her believe, but were in fact the closest thing she had to a _family_.

And all of this was thanks to the Sky-People. _Ugh, again with the Sky-People!_ But it was true that they had completely changed _everything_. On one hand, she had nothing but praise for what they did to the Lannisters, and expressed no end of spite towards them; by now she had even warmed up to the idea that the Lannisters were probably the _real_ traitors to her father (for, you see, the Starks had only fought for the Usurper over a tragic misunderstanding, whereas Tywin betrayed her father out of blatant opportunism).

On the other hand, it was deeply disturbing as well to think just how much power the Sky-People wielded at their fingertips, that they could eliminate the power of the Lannisters just like that and with minimal effort. Just one of their warriors, Lady Vaenya, had practically destroyed a whole Khalassar by herself. She thought back about her ride on that great steam-belching mechanical beast, that so-called "train" of theirs, and how soon there would be railways covering all of Westeros, connecting every major town, port, and castle. She thought about their flying "Falcon" ships that could criss-cross the entire Realm in a matter of minutes, or of the towering glass spires of that great Sky-People metropolis known as "New York" she had seen when they had made her appear before the eyes of some of their most powerful leaders. All she had seen and heard and felt was but scratching the surface, but it was clear that even at the height of their power, House Targaryen was _nothing_ compared to the Sky-People.

 _"Happy Nameday to YYYYOOOOUUUU!"_

Dany was completely oblivious to all that was going on around her. All she could see was her cake, the three heads of "King Whatever" looking up at her as if mocking her; he wasn't a true dragon of House Targaryen, just an imposter, a fraud, a nice image like that which the Sky-People were so good at putting on everything. She wanted to scream and smash her cake apart out of anger and hatred. She could feel her arms tense, as if she were just about to do just that.

"Mmmm... mmmaaa!" cried Drogana. "Mmmaaaa!"

She looked up and locked eyes with her daughter.

Drogana had grown in her first few months, but she was still very much that little bundle of joy that Doctor Chakwas had deposited into her awaiting arms on that day, several months ago. Oh, how she would always remember it, the day she first looked into those eyes of the child that she and her Sun And Stars had made together and who was now all that remained of him, the day the evening sky had lit up with a beautiful display of columns of bright red and pink reaching to the endless stars and beyond.

Perhaps she was being far too harsh on herself, thinking of herself as a "caged dragon"; she was only fifteen, and the Sky-People all lived to well over a hundred - if she lived that long, why, she was just getting started. Perhaps she would be doing herself a favor if she stopped thinking of living with Niall and Kelly as a cage, and instead thought of it as a refuge - somewhere she could be safe for now, where she could rest and learn, and all the while plan and prepare for where the next journey would take her - whether to another world, or back to that House With The Red Door...

"Dany? Y'alright?" It was Niall's voice.

She looked up at Niall first, and then around her, to all the others. The song had ended and everyone's eyes were now fixed on her, waiting for her to do something. The only sounds were that of Drogana, cooing silently on Irri's lap, and of the faint music from the house's stereo; the venerable Durand Of Durand had concluded crooning about the hungry wolf and was now reciting a mournful ballad about a lover saving a prayer for another.

It occurred to her that there were tears running down her cheek, which was what had drawn everyone's concern. She quickly wiped them away, and tried to smile. "It's... it's..." she began, struggling to find the right words, "it's, uh, beautiful. Thank you."

"Well, then go on!" said Bob, "make a wish! Blow out the candles!"

"Bob, don't push her, she'll do that in her own time!" said Kelly.

There were many, _many_ things Dany wanted to wish for. Far too many to think of and pray for. She could not decide on something, so in the end, she wished for the first and quickest words to come to mind.

"I wish... for _fire and blood_!" she mumbled under her breath, and blew. Everyone else broke out in applause.

"Say 'cheese'!" said Robin.

"Cheese?" repeated Dany, looking up, confused.

 _ **FLASH**_.

Then came time to cut the cake. She took a last forlorn look at the dragon sigil as a large knife sank into the icing, severing one of the three heads. With each deep cut, with each piece removed and passed around the guests on little plates with little forks, the dragon shrank further, losing another head, then its tail, then slices off its body. It was like watching the last vestige of her house being slowly erased off the face of the world (except, of course, for those parts of the dragon who would be left over and kept in the refrigerator, to be erased off the face of the world later. Maybe as a midnight snack. With a glass of milk).

 _It's only a cake_ , she tried to tell herself. House Targaryen was, or should be, more than that, more than a nice banner or some house words or some chapter in an old book, dead as the pages upon which it was written. House Targaryen was very much still alive, in herself and her daughter.

She never asked for this life, either here at the colony, or even the Khalassar before, or with Viserys before that, moving from city to city. If she could have chosen anything in life, it would have been the Little House With The Red Door. But as with countless times before, all she could do now was to let the past go, make the best of where she was at that moment, and move on.

Besides, "last vestige of House Targaryen" or not, the cake did taste good.

After the cake came time to open the presents. Miri volunteered to clear up all the plates and forks from the table, while Lord Doran Doran was now serenading all with a soft and blissful melody about an ordinary world. She was surprised when Ryan came to her first, and placed a bundle on the table. "This one's from Fred," he explained, "he knew I was coming here, so he asked me to give it to you."

Oh? She faltered for a moment, as if everything Lord Kovacs touched were poisoned. It was something wrapped in a cloth with a red silk ribbon tied around it. Attached to it was a little card. Hesitantly, she took the card into her hands and began to read.

 _Hey Dany. Hope you're well. Listen, I know nothing I say or do will ever make it up to you for..._

 _And for once, Lord Kovacs, you would be absolutely correct!_ , she thought, bitterly. She pretended to read the rest of the card, but in truth, she ignored the rest, fuming. If she could, she would have given it back to Ryan, told him to take it right back to whence it came.

But whether it was pressure from the others gathered around her, or her own curiosity, she opened it anyway. At first, it looked to be a sleeveless, collared shirt, in rich red silk, a dazzling flame pattern embroidered onto it in gold-colored thread. But when she lifted it up for closer inspection, the bottom fell out, and it unfolded out into a knee-length dress.

"It's beautiful," said Miri.

"It's a _qipao_ ," said Bob, "from China."

"Uh, this one's not Chinese," corrected Ryan, "it's from the Fire Nation."

"Fire... what?" asked Dany, looking up. Was she hearing this right?

"The Fire Nation," repeated Ryan, "they're one of the leading nations that make up Planet L3."

"Tell me more," said Dany, abruptly.

"Sure," shrugged Ryan, "well, they're known for being the second largest nation on the planet, though militarily and industrially, they're number one. They're where the fire-benders come from - yes, a whole nation of pyromancers (well, technically, actual benders are just a fraction of the total populace, but you get the idea). And they apparently have a fetish for the color red, seeing as practically _all_ their stuff is some shade of that color - cars, clothing, buildings, packaging, cigarettes, even the food... Jeez, it's like no one there has a sense of fashion for anything _not_ red."

"And they have... _dragons_?" asked Dany, apprehensively.

"Yes! Well, at least one anyway," said Ryan, "I saw it. When he came to the summit we were holding. I mean, his _owner_ , the Fire Lord (okay, technically _retired Fire Lord_ now, but you get the idea). He came to the summit, and came in riding on the dragon. It was pretty awesome."

She smiled and nodded.

"Here, open our present next!" offered Kelly.

"Nah, she should open the one from Winterfell, since they're not here either," said Niall.

 _Winterfell?_ "Who is it from?" asked Dany.

"It's from the Starks," replied Niall as he walked over to the next room, where the gift was being kept.

"Which Stark?"

"All of them," replied Niall, and paused. "I think. Maybe. I dunno. One of their bannermen came up on the train this morning and dropped it off at my office, told me to give it to you."


	10. The Morning Report

_**Writer's Notes:** as with the previous chapter, this chapter contains references to events that occurred at the end of the other books. Although knowing what these events were is useful for providing context, they are by no means necessary to enjoying the story._

* * *

 **The Flying Northman (X)**

 **The Morning Report  
**

Robb woke up. What a strange dream that was, like he was wild and free, on the hunt in the dark forest, looking for something.

He hadn't gone hunting for a while – only twice since he had returned to the North; it just did not seem worthwhile as he had only Grey Wind for company. Father was down south, and Theon, who was like a brother to him, was down there with Father, serving dutifully as his ward (Robb sometimes wondered if this was a move meant to spite his own ambitions by depriving him a dear friend and ally). Jon, his cousin who was still like a brother to him, was on assignment on The Company's behalf, Beyond The Wall. Of his real brothers, Bran too was still away, choosing to remain on the other world, the big one called "El-Zero", so that he could be enrolled and trained in one of their... so-called "Colleges Of Magic". And of course Rickon was far too young to be taken on the hunt. And all the Northern Lords and Ladies, many of whom had grown to be like brothers and sisters to him over the course of the Riverlands and Reach Campaign had since dispersed back to their lands and holdfasts, leaving only the young ones who were enrolled in Winterfell's Academy.

He looked around him. Even after all the changes the castle had undergone this last year and a half, even with all the electric lights and new photographs and posters that hung on the walls beside older tapestries and wolfskin curtains, it was for the most part still his old bedroom as it had always been. He was the Lord Of Winterfell in his father's absence, but mother still had the master bedroom.

There was however one major change, as he climbed out of bed and made his way to the washbasin: the room was smaller now, as one whole side of the room had been partitioned off to form a private bathroom – small but cozy, electrically heated, with hot running water and a flushing toilet, and every surface shiny and polished, giving a very respectable and "modern" look. Metal piping ran from from this unit, down through holes cut in the floor and walls, connecting with the other bathrooms, and with the castle's natural hot springs, meaning that now almost every bed chamber was just as comfortable as father and mother's.

He took a good look at himself in the mirror. The skin on his right hand was perfect and smooth – not a sign of anything, not even a scar. He then began lathering his face for a good shave - something that could be done far more easily and quickly now, and without the assist of a servant, thanks to things as simple as that "shaving cream", or this remarkably sharp yet cozy "stainless steel precision razor", or just to have running hot water. Small things, yes, but all miracles of the Sky-People no less.

When he first started the First Army, he had tried to introduce mandatory shaving and cutting short of the hair as a way of limiting lice as well as fostering discipline through institution of a rigid morning routine. This came at the chagrin of many of the Northern lords and their banners, particularly the Umbers, to whom maintaining a long, bushy growth was always a mark of pride. Robb though had insisted, and as a way of encouraging it, had adopted the practice himself, because a good general was one who never subjected his men to anything he would not endure himself. Indeed, he had decided he liked what he called "the Sky-Man look" - clean-shaven, with the sides and back of the head undercut to a very short length, but with the top kept just lengthy enough for combing to the side. The older lords said it made him look less of a man and more like a boy, but perhaps that was just them speaking out of fear and suspicion for all things new.

His insistence on enforcing new hair and hygiene upkeep practices was vindicated somewhat when his Lord Father had returned to them, and it was found that he too had shaved off his beard and clipped his hair short, though more as a way of better concealing his true identity for that time that he and his sister were on the run from the Lions. Still, the older lords continued to shun the look. However, the "Sky-Man look" was something that had begun to catch on among the younger generation of lords, ladies, and also the smallfolk too - his "Young Wolves" as he liked to call them, those who bought into his vision that no more would the North lag behind the rest of the Seven Kingdoms, but now would move full steam ahead to take its rightful place as equal (or, better still, as _leader_ ) to any other part of the Realm.

No sooner had he been done with cleaning himself up when there was a knocking, or rather, a heavy pawing, at his door. He opened it to find a familiar, long hairy snout and two large yellow eyes staring up at him. Grey Wind had returned from spending his nights out prowling the forests, as he usually did, the guards letting him back into the castle because by now everyone could recognize the legendary beast who crippled the Kingslayer and was said to have mauled to death some hundred men or more during the war.

"Good boy," he began, petting the beast's great hairy head, "what did you catch last night?"

"Woof!" barked the great wolf, his yellow teeth visibly dripping red.

"A stag, no doubt," he mumbled, "a monstrous, ugly stag! With terrible burning eyes, antlers of razor-sharp iron, and a bald spot! Ha! Come, boy, we have a long day ahead of us."

He must have caught and eaten something large, because he just yawned and stretched out and dozed lazily on the rug while Robb himself was getting dressed, and refused to eat any of the raw meat he was offered on a plate. He even refused to budge when a familiar sound and scent came to greet him at the door.

"Doggy troubles, dear brother?" teased a voice. Robb to see Sansa there, still in her nightgown, Lady just behind her. She had grown greatly too, was almost as large as Grey Wind, but still the most gentle of the pack; her head cocked to the side out of curiosity.

"Yes, he's been hunting monsters all night, keeping us safe, and now he's tired," explained Robb.

"Really?" She feigned surprise and turned to Lady, "well, Lady, that explains where all your prey has gone! Grey Wind, bad boy, you really should leave more for your sister next time!" They both laughed. Lady barked, and Grey Wind stirred.

"Where's Arya?" he asked.

"She's on the radio now, talking to Bran."

"Ah." The radio had been one of the first gifts given to them by Lord Kovacs, and was probably one of the most important. It had been that very device Mother had used to call for help when their brother had fallen (pushed by those treacherous Lions). Now, they used it for everything, and he had subsequently ordered that every keep, holdfast, and township in the North and the Riverlands too have one. It would not be long now before ravens would be no more.

A pity; they were clever birds, reliable and fast – Robb had heard Old Nan tell a tale once, back from the days of Aegon The Conqueror, that once a ranging of the Night's Watch had landed in a spot of trouble with the Wildlings, had gotten themselves trapped on a small rock in the middle of a lake, surrounded; one of them, a runner, had managed to make it back to Eastwatch-By-The-Sea, and have a raven sent to the King, who then came himself to their aid, riding on the back of Balerion, and all of this within the space of two days, before the lake even had time to freeze. Robb considered this tale to be utter _horse-piss_ – no-one else, not Maester Luwin, not even the Targs' own family histories, had ever contained mention of such a preposterous incident. Old Nan had probably made up this rubbish herself, but like any good tall tale, whether true or false, it tended to stick in one's mind, especially whenever he thought about just how fast a raven dispatch could travel.

Now, radio was not entirely without its downsides. Namely, Robb suspected that the Sky-People, through whatever techno-sorcery of theirs, were listening in on every word that was on that device. On the other hand, it's not as if messages by raven or by horse courier were any less prone to interception.

"How is our dear brother?" he asked, "what new sorceries have they taught him at this college?" He felt a brief pang of sadness as he looked down at where Grey Wind and Lady played and teased, remembering Summer.

"You'll have to ask him yourself, she left after I did."

"That's fine then," he said as he glanced up from pulling on his boot, up at the clock on the shelf, "I will be parting soon. Give him my love, and Grey Wind's too."

"You won't be staying with us for breakfast?"

"I have a train to catch, and work to be done. I'll eat on the train."

"You've been traveling to the colony quite frequently," observed Sansa, "at least once every couple weeks."

"I like the journey there and back again," he shrugged, "to see the land sweeping past the window, to hear the clickaty-clack of the rails and the chugging of the engine. And I like the feeling too of sitting down at the colony, looking out the window and just watching... everything. Their trucks driving by, their machines rumbling about, the faces of every new colonist who arrives."

"Still, you know how mother feels about this," cautioned Sansa, "with all of these 'modern conveniences' and whatnot, she said you should be having _more_ time to spend with us, not _less_."

"Ah, dear Mother, always stuck up in the old ways," replied Robb, shaking his head. "She never apologized to Jon about everything until after she learnt the truth."

"You never really pushed her on it," said Sansa. When Robb glared at her, she quickly added, "nor did I. We are all complicit."

"Doesn't matter now," said Robb, quickly. "What's done is done and now we move on. I'll bring her something nice from the colony. Maybe another box of lemon pastries from their bakery. She likes those."

"Ahem," coughed Sansa, crossing her arms.

"I thought you were going on one of those Sky-People 'health programs'," muttered Robb, "I thought you wanted to pick up – what's it called? Tennis."

She gasped and pinched him. He laughed.

A few minutes of banter later, he was dressed, wearing a grey leather tunic with brass buttons and black belt, and black riding boots, and all of his papers for the day loaded up in a leather satchel by his side. He bid Sansa and Lady farewell, and made his way down to the stables. As he mounted a horse for the ride, two riflemen of the First Army approached him.

"M'lord," addressed the leader of the two, his rank insignia denoting him to be a sergeant of the Winterfell Dragoons, "wherever it is you are riding, we shall accompany you."

"Thank you, but that will not be necessary," replied Robb, "if a king cannot ride his lands without fear of his people, he is not a good king. Besides, I have Grey Wind with me."

"Ruff!" barked the direwolf, half-lazily.

"Aye, m'lord, but his people are not the only thing a king, even a good one, has to fear," warned the sergeant. In the end, his bannermen insisted, so he took an honor guard who ride with him at least as far as the Winter Town train station.

A loud whistling in the distance alerted them that the morning train for the colony was soon to depart, as well as acting as a giant rooster call for any in Winter Town still asleep (and for which reason, together with its great length, some of the townsfolk had taken to calling it "The Giant Cock"). The train had arrived last night, the crew had overnighted in the town, and at dawn had restocked the engine with coal and water, and turned it around for the first of several journeys that day between Winter Town and Autumn's Frontier. As he approached, he could see several dozen people gathering on the platform - laborers heading up to the colony, those townsfolk who had a few coins to spare to travel up and see the wonders of the Sky-People for themselves, and even a few of the colonists who had spent the night in Winter Town - "tourists" as they were called. These ones looked a little flustered, like they were unused to the kind of "comforts" Northern hospitality had to offer.

The Northman itself stood parked by the platform, like a great iron dragon, belching smoke and hissing steam, all of his carriages painted in the gleaming red livery, the finalized sigil of the venerable "Autumn-Winter Railway" freshly painted on each one.

Robb left his horse with one of the Winter Town watchmen, and boarded the train, showing his special Company-issued identification badge at the door. The conductor, a First Army rifle captain himself who doubled as the head of the train's security detail, recognized him at once, saluted him, and led him to one of the first class compartments that he would have all to himself. He took his seat, and settled in for the three-hour ride, with all of his books and materials to read.

When the serving girl with the cart came by, he ordered a regular coffee, with milk and sugar – after that awful experience at that "StarBux", he would never order some exotic variation of base coffee ever again. He offered to pay with some of the gold dragons he carried around with him. The girl, however, politely turned him down, explaining that The Company pays for all of House Stark's expenses, both travel fares and concessions. He insisted that he at least tip her, and she accepted a Stag.

As the train trundled down the tracks, landscape outside swept past, changing from the houses and chimneys of Winter Town, to the fields and isolated farmhouses, and then to the woods. Grey Wind stretched out on the floor and dozed off. Robb sat back, put his feet up on the seat facing him, opened his satchel and began pouring through the day's work he had brought with him.

The first was a letter from the resident UN representative. Apparently, an investigation by some body within the UN called the "UNCTAD" had found preliminary evidence to suggest that The Company may have been engaging in fraudulent and misleading trade practices, as The Company was currently paying all of its local allies in the Epsilon Eridani System well below the fair market value of the rents and leaseholds on the various land parcels they had acquired. For example, The North was allegedly receiving payments every month from The Company far, far below the monthly revenue The Company was projected to be making from these same parcels of land, and certainly below the minimum payment percentage required by UNASEC as a legal safeguard against renters fraudulently misrepresenting the actual value of a property to an owner of considerably more modest means and bargaining power than said renter.

As such, a so-called "activist group" from Earth was now planning to bring a class action lawsuit against The Company, seeking to oblige them to pay a fairer and more appropriate sum of money. But in order to do so, they needed to find one of the local Eridani nations to join as a party to the suit in order to have the requisite standing. Someone named "Miss Relena Freiden" was now reaching out to the Starks, as the recognized leaders of the Kingdom Of The North, to join in the lawsuit against The Company. Attached to the letter were several pages of printed documents, including papers that tried to spell out, in as simple terms as possible (for the benefit of all Eridani locals who would be reading it), the alleged true monetary value of the land in "United Nations Credits" (minus taxes and various other fees), as well as an attempt to convert the result into Westerosi Gold Dragons. The final document was what Robb recognized was a copy of the lease contract that he and his father had signed almost a year and a half ago – the one they had made with Lord Kovacs.

Ah, Lord Kovacs. Yes, surely he must be the root of all this. It's always him, isn't it? Robb, however, decided that as angry as he was, perhaps it would be better in this case to politely decline Lady Freiden's offer. After all, from the looks of it, the payments they could possibly be making (assuming that they won at trial in the first place) would not be radically more than what they were already receiving so as to justify the risk. For regardless of whether they won or lost, they would be antagonizing an ally either way, especially an ally who had dispensed with Tywin Lannister and his incestuous twins as easily as if they were nothing. And after seeing the advocate Lady Sarah Carson in action, he doubted that he ever wanted to find himself on the side opposing her. In any case, it seemed that the High Lady ("Supreme Directress" as they called her) of House Kovacs was determined to make amends and offer additional assistance to compensate for some of her son's blunders, and Robb supposed that the principle of not biting the hand that fed you stood as true to the Sky-People as it did to the Northmen.

He paused to rub his eyes. _Oh, Gods! I'm only fifteen and I have to deal with all of this?_

The next item to review were the monthly coal and steel production figures from Winter Town. Not much of note there.

Then came the results of the census, conducted by Daryl Mollen with help from a UN expert, and substantiated by a UN so-called "satellite thermo-scan" of the area. The population of the Winterfell, Winter Town, and the surrounding area was now estimated at some hundred-and-fifty thousand people, and growing steadily as more people came in from across the North (and some from as far south as the Riverlands too, their homes destroyed by the Lannisters and now heading north, hearing of the fabulous wealth the Sky-People had brought). Attached was a note from the UN expert, advising that now was the time to start investing in a proper sewage disposal and water supply for Winter Town. Robb agreed; he had been to King's Landing following the Riverlands Campaign, could remember the stink well, and knew he would prefer to avoid that if possible.

Then came the reports from Lord Manderly's sons, who were heading the continued training and organization of the First Army. With peace returned and the army disbanded (in theory), many of the former soldiers had been instead reassigned and put to work between here and White Harbor, as organized farmhands tilling the fields, or as laborers building mills, storehouses, barracks, or improving the roads. The other Northern lords had protested that Winterfell retain many of their banners and serfs, so they had been paid off in Lannister gold seized during the campaign as compensation. The core of the First Army, however, remained under arms, constantly training; their entire camp had now become a permanent fixture, wooden barracks erected and sewers dug, like a third town together with Winterfell and Winter Town; the town continued to grow as many of their families from elsewhere across the North emigrated to join fathers and husbands enlisted in the First Army.

And then came the reports from Lord Manderly himself, in White Harbor. This week, the next "clipper" was nearing completion; it was to be named "Red Fork" in commemoration of their glorious victory (the first one had been named "King Theon's Fury" in honor of his great ancestor who had defeated the Andals and ensured the North retain its First Men heritage). The harbor had kept detailed records on ship arrivals and departures, and on customs and tax revenue; however, Lord Wyman suspected that the figure would have been even higher if not for (so he believed) several of the harbor clerks engaging in embezzlement and trading kickbacks to some of the merchants for personal favors. This had always happened, granted, though Robb was unpleasantly reminded of what his father used to complain about, about how "modern" ways might eventually corrupt the Northmen, make them crave coin over honor.

Finally, apparently, White Harbor had lost contact with one of their tradeships, though not quite in a manner they had expected. For the last few months, the Manderlys had paid greatly to have every one of their ships equipped with a radio, so that each ship may alert one another to dangers like storms or piracy. As it turns out, one of the captains had gotten drunk and peddled off his radio in Pentos to some merchant as a curiosity for an undetermined sum of gold coinage. Robb hoped, for the captain's sake, that it was at the very least a decent sum of gold, for he was sure to be severely punished upon his return.

Throughout all of this, the train steamed onwards, the landscape sailing by the window as he worked, forest greens blurred with lakes and mountains and rolling hills and, occasionally, an ancient stone circle left by the First Men. He had ridden the train now several times, but still he never ceased to be amazed at just how fast and yet smooth the ride was, such that he could work in peace and write his letters, which would not be possible on horseback or in a wagon. Grey Wind continued to snooze.

But peace and the "modern" life brings its discontents as well, and Robb felt sometimes like he had grown a little soft. Before the Sky-People came, he would spend his days, with his brothers (including Jon and Theon too) training for war, sparring, practicing archery, and hunting. After the Sky-People came, and after the Lannisters' treacherous attack on his brother, he had spent those days training, fighting, or living on the march. And no matter how dark things had gotten on some of those days, whether it was losing an uncle or a grandfather, or living in the shadow of doubt of whether they would win or not, or learning that his goal of an independent North was not to be thanks to the insistence of his father, there was still something about living on the march with his companions by his side, something about the excitement of war, the thrill of rifles cracking or cannons pounding, or the thunderous roar of cavalry charging, that he admitted he missed very much.

Now, with the war over and King Stannis on the throne, he instead spent his days working at a desk, reading letters, writing letters, then going to bed and waking up the next morning to read even more letters and write even more letters. He looked at Grey Wind, sprawled out on the floor and fast asleep after the Gods know whatever he was up to last night. He was jealous; sometimes he wondered if he was living vicariously through him!

He also wondered if this was how all Sky People themselves felt – he loved reading about the great heroes of their past, of their Alexanders and Caesars, their Napoleons and their Wellingtons. Or even the one they called Roosevelt, the one who was an able warrior and strongman ("Bullmoose" they called him), who had even survived being shot to give a speech later that same day, and despite being crippled and bound to a wheelchair, had gone on to steer his nation, the American Freehold, through the worst economic crisis and war it had even endured... (was that correct? Or were there two different Roosevelts he was thinking of?). These were real men the Sky-People ought to be proud to have birthed, though now, if the likes of Lord Frederick Kovacs was whom they considered to be their leaders, Robb felt truly sorry for them. What about Sergeant Nathanial Hawthorne? Who used to train Robb and Jon and the others personally in the use of the rifle? Why hadn't he been in charge?

In the end, he was grateful to the Sky-People for all they had given and helped them accomplish, and he wondered sometimes where he would be right now without them. But at the same time, there was always something more to be desired, as if each gift from the Sky-People wasn't the be-all and end-all of anything, but merely a taste of something greater they were withholding from him, a taste that leaves one thirsting for more. Oh, how he wished Father would leave King Stannis already and come home, take charge of affairs at Winterfell, and then at last he would be free to venture forth, mayhaps visit the rest of the Realm - he could ask for a ride on the Falconship, or even wait a couple years until the railway to the south had been completed.

No, that was thinking far too small. He had seen the South now, hell, had fought his way across half of it, from the Westerlands down to the Reach. And from what he had heard, Essos was nothing really that much more worth seeing (then again, his primary source on this had been Lord Kovacs). No, what he truly wanted was to leave this world, just once even, and to travel to these other ones he had heard and read so much about. About General Boromir The Bold and King Elessar and Lady Kyra Lynn, and how together they had led the First Army Of Gondor to victory against the hordes of Mordor and their mysterious leader... Mairon? Or of the Emperor Karl Franz astride his griffon Deathclaw, and their epic duel against the Daemon Tz'arkan aboard a ship the size of a city. Or this other world too, the one that was more like the Sky-People's in many ways, where the people could command the very elements themselves. And of course there was Earth too, with its great citadels of gleaming glass towers like the one called "New York" that he had seen only glimpses of that time he had been made to testify as a witness in defense of The Company's actions before the UN (regardless of how bitterly he had started to feel about the whole affair).

He arrived at the colony, exactly on time; the train was only five minutes behind schedule, but he had planned to give himself an extra hour just in case. He had some time to drop his letters at the colony's post office, to visit the hardware store and take stock of what new tools and building materials were on sale, and then to visit the bakery and order a box of lemon cakes for mother (which he would pick up later, when they were still fresh). He also visited the moving picture house, to ask what new moving pictures they would be showing and when, so he could tell Arya, just in case she was interested. These were all minor tasks that he could have sent a bannerman to do. Nor did he have any appointments to be meeting any of the Sky-People – Lord Daniel was away at one of their new colonies down south, as were anybody else of note. There was however another reason he came today, one he had been planning for at least a couple weeks now.


	11. Hungry Like The Wolf

_**Writer's Notes:** I'd like to announce a "casting change" of sorts. Generally, these stories follow the canon of the books but with visual cues taken from the TV show. However, this isn't 100% exact, and sometimes I make minor modifications if I believe it will better serve the story. For example, for those of you who read Book1, do recall that we had "recast" King Robert to be played by BRIAN BLESSED (not saying that the actor in the show was bad by any means, just that BRIAN BLESSED is a far superior King Robert). _

_Well, today, I'd like to announce a similar change. I like the character of Daenerys (at least as she appears in the books); however, I do not like the actress Emilia Clarke at all. Yes, shocking announcement, isn't it? I understand that many readers will disagree with my opinion, and that's perfectly fine, everyone is entitled to their own opinion. But I thought I would enjoy the character more (and that it would better suit the purposes of this story) if I replaced the actress - a better, more innocent-looking actress, and one maybe a little more age appropriate for the role (Clarke is 31 years old now, whereas Dany is supposed to be 17 in the show and only 13 at the start of the books).  
_

 _Therefore, thanks to a well-articulated suggestion proposed by the user **Kelmola** over on the other website, I have decided to kick Emilia Clarke out of my stories and instead give Dany an appearance and voice based on the actress Evanna Lynch aka "Luna Lovegood" (specifically, her appearances in the 5th and 6th _ Harry Potter _films, where she would be a little closer in age to Dany). I think she's perfect for the role. Therefore, moving forward in this story (and looking back retroactively at Book1), readers should henceforth envision Dany as being "played" by Luna Lovegood._

 _Now, with all that said, let's move on with the show._

* * *

 **The Flying Northman (XI)**

 **Hungry Like The Wolf**

She had first come here nearly a year ago, and the center of Autumn's Frontier had grown enormously in that time, and particularly after more of them had arrived, such that it was more appropriately called a small city in Dany's eyes. The central command center, complete with the control tower, and the medical center nextdoor to it, still formed the center of the colony. Now, however, new structures had since gone up and some had gone down and moved elsewhere.

A new structure, the local office for the UN, its gleaming and "modern" glass facade contrasting with the more concrete and functional-looking Company buildings, had been constructed half a mile away. The space between these two structures was the "Main Street" of the colony, a collection of one- and two-storey steel buildings hastily raised along this way. All the noisy, smoky, industrial places – the refinery, the manufactora, the railway yard, and the huge quarry – were all located on the other side of the command center. "Main Street" was The Company's attempt to create a pleasant and leisurely locale; they had even kept the trees between the two sectors in place, to try conceal as much of the quarry from "Main Street" as possible (though everywhere else they were felling more and more of the forest to feed the colony's demand for wood and open space).

Along Main Street, there was to be found a coffeehouse (that infamous one they called the "StarBux"), a fitness center, the post office, a variety of different shops peddling different wares, the school for the Sky-People's children (the one Niall and Kelly spoke of sending her to one day, when she was ready)... there was the colony's main central cafeteria, but there were four other small places to eat and drink, where both Sky-People and locals could be found – The Company's own laborers spending their hard-earned salaries, or visitors from as far as Essos spending their gold to savor the fare of the Sky-People with great curiosity. The most recent of these places to open was the one located in a low steel structure, a little but brightly lit red sign hanging above the entrance that read "CAMINO'S".

There was a truck they had running every hour, a shuttle service connecting the center of Autumn's Frontier with the now three smaller satellite colonies, including the "residential development" where she and her daughter lived with Niall and Kelly. She had just ridden in on the shuttle, using her Company-issued identification card to pay for her passage – apart from all the meals and other things that Niall and Kelly gave her, she was also receiving a small stipend to pay for things. From where the shuttle stopped was just a short walk to the place.

Yes, he was there, sitting at one of the tables by himself, though there was the great big wolf sitting down next to him, alert, drawing the attention (and occasional worried glances) from several other patrons at the nearby tables. Yes, with that wolf, who else could it be?

"Lord Stark," she addressed, bowing her head slightly when he saw her. She took the seat across the table from his.

"Lady Targaryen," he replied, bowing his head slightly. "Where is your daughter?"

"I left her at home, with my nurse. I know how much you're scared of her."

"A pity. I was beginning to get the impression she had taken a liking to me."

"Thank you for the gift," she said, as she took off the travel coat she was wearing, lined with wolf-fur and with the House Stark direwolf embroidered across the back. "It's lovely."

"You should thank my sisters. Arya remembered it was your Nameday, and Sansa made it. She seems to be quite attuned to whatever it is girls are finding 'fashionable' these days. Travel coats like this seem all the rage nowadays in Winter Town – they look 'modern' and yet are quite useful for our weather here."

"I'm sure they are," she replied; it was a brisk day, as most days here in the North (and especially now that summer was over and they were well into autumn), and beneath that she was wearing just the sleeveless red dress, with the golden flaming patterns... the one Lord Kovacs had given her.

"That's a... nice dress," he observed as she folded her travel coat over the back of her chair. "It's from one of the other worlds, is it?"

"Thank you," she replied. She did not want to admit that she actually rather liked it, whatever she thought of the man who gifted it to her. "Yes, it's from, well, it's from... uh..."

"Hi there!" interrupted someone approaching them; it was one of the Sky-People, dressed in black blouse and pants with a white apron and red bowtie. She handed out a pair of menus before continuing. "Welcome to Camino's! That means 'fireplace' in Italian, or 'the way' in Spanish, if you prefer. My name's Dory, I'll be your waitress today. You two must be locals. I can tell it from the way you're awkwardly sitting around (well, that and the sword was a dead giveaway too). Have you ever had pizza before?"

"No."

"Well, thank you for choosing Camino's!" continued Dory, "honestly, we make the best pizza! Wood-burning ovens, and real authentic Italian-style too, with thin-crust and real Mozzarella! Not like that thick-crusted garbage with fake cheese they serve at Nova Pizza, Pizza Planet, Tony Soprano's, or any other rival chain! Camino's: proud subsidiary of The Company."

"I've heard of Italy," remarked Dany. She looked across the table at Robb. "You know, they're supposed to be like Earth's Valyria. They have ancient Rome, volcanoes, and, uh..." She furrowed her brow, trying to recall exactly the words of Ser Bob Of Accounting from her nameday...

"And they had some great military exploits too," added Robb, "they once had this long, bitter war with another ancient empire called Carthage that was like what the Valyrians had with Old Ghis. Except Rome didn't have dragons, so they had to beat them the hard way. And their greatest general was this one named Caesar. You know, back when we were fighting the Lannisters down in the Riverlands, I drew a lot of ideas from reading about Caesar's exploits in Gaul and..."

"Ahem!" coughed their waitress, impatiently, whom Dany had already forgotten the name of.

"Right," said Robb, opening the menu, "yes, uh... what do you recommend?" Dany opened her menu too and, as usual, had her eyes assaulted with the strange words and colorful pictures and sheer variety of items and different flavors and things the Sky-People had. He probably had the right idea, if nothing else, to not look like a fool, unable to choose from all the choices in front of them.

"The specials today (and for probably the next year) are the _Del Nord_ and the _Casterliano_ ," replied the waitress, holding up one of those so-called 'holo-tablets'.

"What're those?"

"To celebrate the opening of our first stores in the EE System, each of our locations here is supposed to come up with new flavors to match their unique locale," explained the waitress. "Our three pizza flavors we came up with here are the Pizza _Del Nord_ , the _Casterliano_ , and the _Martellino_. Our sister shop over at Beautiful Horizon has two new flavors out right now, the _Gondoriana_ and the _Gandolfini_..."

"What's on the Del Nord?" asked Dany.

"Smoked elk, chanterelle, red onion, tomato, and mozzarella," she replied.

"Sounds good to me," shrugged Robb. He looked down at Grey Wind, who was eyeing his master expectantly. "I think he will want another pizza all to himself."

"If you want to, we can make it half one flavor and half something else," offered the waitress.

"All North is fine," insisted Dany. She did not quite fancy the idea of tasting something made in honor of those duplicitous lions, even if their current lord, the one they called "Halfdude", seemed a tad more decent than the traitor he had replaced.

The waitress tapped something into her tablet. "And would you like something to drink with that? We just received a shipment flown in from Dorne. Might be a little pricey now, but I'm sure prices will come down once we have the railway extended down to there."

"Dornish red, one bottle sounds good."

"Got it," she replied, "now I'll just need to see your ID's first. You know, make sure you're both of age."

"Is that necessary?" asked Dany, "I can tell you right now, we are both ten-and-five years of age."

"Oh. In which case, sorry, I'll have to take that back," said the waitress, apologetically, "you're both underage. I'm sorry, it's just the two of you look older than fifteen. My mistake."

"I beg your pardon," muttered Robb, "this is the North. Northern customs and rights apply."

"Yes, and Autumn's Frontier is an enclave within the North, administered along UN guidelines and regulations."

"I am the Lord Of Winterfell," insisted Robb, "I recall Lord Kovacs telling me that I had special rights as a head of state."

"And I have a special exemption from UN regulation!" added Dany, suddenly recalling what Lady Carson had mentioned on her nameday.

The waitress, however, looked unconvinced. "If that's the case, I'll have to hear it from your lawyers. Sorry, but right now, I can't serve you wine. Look, try and look at it from my perspective, okay? UN office's just a few doors down from here. They find out that I might have been serving minors, I could get fined a few hundred credits and we could lose our liquor license!"

 _Again, the Sky-People and all their confusing and sometimes complete nonsense rules and regulations_ , thought Dany, quite annoyed. Honestly, what harm could the two of them _really_ cause with just a half bottle each? Would it really cause the end of the world to serve them wine? "Fine, just give us water then," she blurted.

"That's one silver stag off the tip," fumed Robb, bitterly, once the waitress had left them and was out of earshot. "If she wasn't going to serve us, she should not have offered in the first place!"

"Well, she probably assumed we were older. I... I have met some of the colonists' children and, well, even the ones said to be my age... they still look and behave like _children_! They make even Lord Kovacs seem elderly and mature by comparison."

"Regardless, that's another drop I can add to Lord Kovacs' bucket of _horse-piss_."

"You hate him too?"

"He's rude, he's disrespectful," fumed Robb, "when he was here, he made me sign all kinds of papers (which, mind you, is to them as good as swearing an oath is to us). He made me do things I would never have done otherwise. He made me help him cheat and lie, which I did, because I needed his help to protect my family. You don't know what it's like, do you? Having to choose between the father you love, and the honor he always taught you to value? Argh! And now today, I found out on the train coming up this morning that he has been underpaying us for all the land, _this_ land, that we have been leasing out to The Company."

"Whatever it is, at least he helped give you _your_ family back," seethed Dany, "he took _mine_ away from me." Honestly, she was started to get a little annoyed with the Young Wolf's whinging. Whatever wrongs he had suffered at the hands of the Merchant Prince were minor compared to hers!

"So here we are, comparing who has the bigger grievance with a man that, if the Gods are truly good, neither of us will ever have to see, ever again. Is that it?" He narrowed his eyes. "That dress... it's from Lord Kovacs, isn't it?"

"How do you know that?" she asked.

"I've been reading a little about the other worlds, their histories, their great nations, their heroes and conquests," he continued, "that one looks like it's from the... _Fire Nation_ , I believe. Yes, the Fire Nation - a nation so powerful and advanced, they were building flying ships and steam trains even before the Sky-People arrived, burned whole cities to the ground like the Valyrians used to, and would have conquered all of their world were it not for the one they call 'Avatar'! All of this, I have only read in books or have been told by others. For the only person I know on that world right now is Lord Kovacs."

Dany said nothing, though that only seemed to validate his accusation in his eyes.

"So, you hate him... and you're wearing the dress he gave you."

"It... is beautiful," she said at last. She did not want to tell him the real reason she had picked it out today.

"And you know what?" he responded, "I absolutely agree. I guess that makes two of us. He gave me _this_ as a gift, and I still carry it around with me everywhere." He reached into the leather pouch on his belt and pulled out a long, cold, grey item. He placed it on the table with a metallic thud. It was one of their firearms. "Though I guess it's useful at least. For protection, and as a mark of authority."

"Have you ever shot it before?" she asked, curious.

"Only in practice," he said, reproachfully. She noticed some hesitation in his speech. "Now that you mention it, I... uh, don't think I've ever used it in battle, not once."

"You conquered the South and you never once used your gun?"

"There's a difference between commanding an army, and doing the actual fighting," sighed Robb. "I know, strange isn't it? Before the Sky-People came, I used to spend every day, sparring and training for war, with Jon and Theon and father. And then, war finally comes, and just about the only time I ever used my sword this whole campaign was when I chopped off the Kingslayer's hand."

"You missed," said Dany, "you should have chopped him at the neck."

"Aye, and you are probably right," said Robb, closing his eyes in regret, "but... well... see, it's hard to explain." He sighed. "I think we may have had this conversation before. And I have no doubt that if 'twas I in his place, the Kingslayer would have gutted me alive where I lay. But father would have wanted me to make a point to make him stand trial for his crimes, to show that we're better than that."

"I guess we're all just products of the parents who make us," she replied.

"I agree," shrugged Robb, "even Lord Kovacs. Look at his mother, like Cersei magnified a thousand times in beauty, arrogance, and manipulation. And who is his father anyway?"

"He's... that's a very good question," she said. Now she was genuinely curious. She had heard Lady Kovacs brought up many times by Niall and Kelly, but almost never her husband. She would ask them when she got back this evening.

"I mean, look at Joffrey," he rambled on, "arrogant little shit and yes, pardon my Dornish, but that's about the most accurate description I can think of. Mother was a whore, father was the Kingslayer. Nothing good ever comes from _in_... uh..."

"Yes?" she asked, raising an eyebrow.

"...fidelity," he said, quickly, "yes, nothing good ever comes from _infidelity_."

"If you meant to say _incest_ , by all means go ahead," she replied, coolly, "my late father burned your grandfather and your uncle alive; you've earned that much."

"I didn't mean it that way... I'm sorry."

"No offense taken," she retorted with ice in her breath. "At least your family has a legitimate gripe with mine."

"Look, if it makes you feel any better," he said quickly. "Look, please listen. You know... my dear mother was originally betrothed to my uncle Brandon, before he... uh..." He sighed, clearly having difficulty with what he was to say next. "I guess, in some twisted way, I owe my very existence to your father. If not for his... uh... if not for _him_ , there might be a very different Lord Of Winterfell sitting in front of you today."

"And if not for his madness, there would probably be a very different heir to the Iron Throne sitting in front of _you_ today," she replied. "But... thank you. That's probably the nicest thing you've said all day."

They sat in silence for several minutes, saying nothing. She looked at the other people around them, all Sky-People, except for what looked like a group of Braavosi merchants in the opposite corner enamored in the things they were seeing and tasting. And everyone was engrossed in their own personal lives, none of them seeming to care about their conversation. And then...

"I know this song," he spoke up, just now taking note of the music being recited over the restaurant's speakers. "My sister plays it all the time, this one and all her other 'Fredmusik'."

"I know it too," she said, "Niall plays it all the time. One of his favorite performing groups."

" _I'm on the hunt, I'm after you... and I'm hungry like the wolf!_ " sang Robb.

"Woof!" chimed in Grey Wind. He seemed to agree with the lyrics' assessment.

They both broke out laughing.

"Teach me," said Dany, abruptly.

"Uh... what?"

"My brother, Rhaegar, was once beloved across the Realm for his skill with the sword and harp both. And my brother Viserys... well, he was not quite Rhaegar, but he had his moments too." She remembered the sight of him, her brother, back in Vaes Dothrak in his final moments, fighting back no matter how hopelessly outmatched he was, and she was filled a sudden and immense sadness. "I... I wish to honor both of them. I would love to learn the sword too."

"I am not teaching you how to use a sword!"

"And why not?" she insisted, " your sister practices at it daily. She is quite good at it from what I have heard."

"Absolutely not!"

"Ruff!" barked Grey Wind, except that after that, he grabbed onto the sword in his master's scabbard with his mouth, and tugged on it – firmly but gently of course, for had he pulled on it with his true strength, he probably would have pulled his master clean off his chair.

"Grey Wind seems to agree with me," she observed, "and earlier you were lamenting not putting your hard-learned swordsmanship to good use, if I recall correctly."

"What? No, bad boy! Down, boy! Down!"

"Another sport then?" she suggested. She eyed the gun sitting on the table. "I know! Firearms then. If swords are indeed going out and firearms are what's in these days."

Grey Wind barked, finally letting go of his master's belt.

"Fine!" said Robb, "I will take you to the firing range after this. But only this one time, understood? You want lessons, I'm sorry, you can ask Niall or Ser Hawthorne or Lord Daniel. You realize I have a Kingdom to run!"

Dany smiled innocently. "I understand."

"Oh. My. God!" squealed a voice from behind her.

Dany turned around to see a Sky-Woman approaching her. "You're Daenerys Targaryen!" she continued, "Oh my god! Oh my god! I'm, like, such a huge fan! Can you sign my shirt please thank you?" Without even waiting for Dany's response, she shoved a pen practically into Dany's face (thus making her entire request for permission kind of redundant anyway). She then lifted up her shirt up for her to sign, exposing her pudgy midriff and bra.

"I'm sorry, who you are?" asked Robb.

"I'm Gabby," she smiled, "but oh my god, Daenerys Targaryen! We have, like, a whole fan club devoted to you!" She proudly showed off her t-shirt, which Dany could now see had the Targaryen sigil (with numerous mistakes here and there, but still recognizable) and their house words printed upon it. She continued, giddily, as she reached for her MyPhone: "I need to show you something. I'm already working on my cosplay for the first annual EridaniCon that's gonna be held in Republic City next year! I'm gonna be you!"

Dany did not know whether she felt more honored, humiliated, horrified, or just confused at all she was hearing and seeing. Robb, meanwhile, muttered: "I guess there are secret Targaryen loyalists around here after all."

"Wait, you're Robb Stark, aren't you?" continued Gabby, starry-eyed, "shit, sorry I, like, _so_ didn't recognize you! You're even more cute in real life than on the holo-vids! But you look so different from when you were at the UN! New haircut? New uniform? It really suits you, you look so _macho_ and _militaristic_! My BFF back on Earth is writing a fanfic that has you paired up with her OC and...!"

 _Oh. Gods._ , was the thought Dany could tell was running through his mind. "Thank you. Now leave us," he said, firmly.

"Okay, but I just wanna say," Gabby continued, turning back to Dany, "I totally think you were right all along. I totally think you should have been the Queen! Stannis is an asshole! I wish the UN had picked you!"

"Please. Leave. Us. _Alone._ " muttered Robb, again.

She turned back to look at him, and smiled. "Say, I know what's going on. You two are secretly plotting against Stannis, aren't you? Oh, don't worry about me, I promise I'll keep my mouth shut and...!"

"Just. Stop." growled Robb, raising his voice slightly. Beside him, Grey Wind bared his teeth.

Gabby seemed to have gotten the hint, and since she had already gotten what she wanted, she left at this point. About bloody time.

"I swear to whatever Gods you follow, I have _never_ seen that person before," remarked Dany, holding her hands up.

"That's fine," growled Robb, quite red in the face, "on second thoughts, perhaps we should take lunch... what's the Sky-People word? In a _wolf bag_ and go."

"I agree," she mumbled, "though I think the correct word is _dog's bag_."

"I am quite certain that's not the correct word either."

They both broke out laughing. Yet again.

And then, they were interrupted. Yet again.

"Excuse me," said the man, in just about the flattest, most nasal, most unmotivated voice one could imagine. He was obese, dressed in a shirt and tie, with glasses, and a face covered in pimples such that it looked almost indistinguishable from the pizza this establishment served. He continued, in that monotonous drawl: "Um. Hi. Yes. I'm the manager here. Sorry, some of the other patrons are complaining about your dog. Can you please leash him outside? I'm afraid he can only stay in here if he's a registered service animal. Oh, and about your gun. Sorry. Do you have an open carry permit? All registered Company employees are entitled to carry one personal defense weapon, but all visitors are required to have a permit. Because then I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to please..."

Robb and Dany stared at each other for a moment. And then he quietly and calmly lowered his forehead onto the top of the table and scowled.


	12. A Death To Knighthood (Part 1)

**A Death To Knighthood (Part I)**

 **Brienne  
**

When her King asked that she ride by his side today, Brienne's heart flew. Granted, he would be taking all of his Rainbow Guard out today, as much to show them off as for protection, as he always did. The terms of the parley had called for no more than "a dozen men for each party", and King Renly intended to fill seven of those places out with the newest symbol of his status. Still, knowing that she would have the honor in standing by her King's side, making her presence known as his ambassador against the King's brother's claim, filled her with pride. It was things like this that she had always lived and longed for - the things that knighthood should be all about. And even when it wasn't, it was still the hopes and dreams of such things that made all the struggles and hardships along the way worth it.

And what a sight they made. The King rode at the head of them, in flowing velvet green robes decorated with the crowned stag worked in gold thread upon his chest; the Baratheon sigil in the colors of Highgarden - he looked fit more for a feast than for battle. Beside him, atop a splendid destrier, the Queen in her emerald silk dress, soft curling brown hair waving in the breeze. A beautiful pair, they made; it saddened Brienne too at the same time, knowing that the King's heart belonged to another.

Just behind them rode Lord Mace himself, and the Queen's brother Ser Garlan, Lord Mathis Rowan, and of course their master tactician, Lord Randyll Tarly, looking dour as always. Surrounding them rode the anointed knights of the Rainbow Guard - their Lord Commander Loras rode to the immediate left of the Queen, while Ser Robar Royce The Red rode on the right of the King. Brienne herself came up just behind him, her blue armor glinting in the sun, clashing strikingly with Robar's red. With gleaming steel and silk in every color, they were like heroes ridden right out of the tales and songs of olde, splendid warriors of summer marching out to face the drab greys and blacks and browns of the wrath of winter in front of them. It was always summer in those old tales.

It had been several weeks now since they'd parted Bitterbridge, an army the likes of which the Realm had never seen before. All in all, some eighty thousand sets of boots or hooves pounded the Roseroad into mud every day, whilst at night, thousands of campfires filled the sky with a pale smoky haze. A forest had surely been felled just to provide all that firewood... to say nothing of the innumerable staffs that held the banners that flapped behind them, or the dozens of siege engines they had been preparing for the planned siege of the capital, or the hundreds upon hundreds of wagons needed to carry all their baggage and supplies - particularly food, as the King demanded he dine as one, and every night the long table of the command tent teemed with the finest produce the Reach had to offer.

They had made good progress, lumbering maybe twelve miles each day since Bitterbridge. Another few days and they would have been at the Kingswood, where they would have to slow down and scout ahead heavily in order to avoid falling into an ambuscade. That was, however, until the news came in that the King's brother had left whatever concealed position he might be enjoying in the wood and instead had sallied forth to treat with him. It was a curious thing that Lord Stannis would sacrifice his advantage of surprise to parley with his brother. Curious, and in vain. If his intentions were to make their King relinquish his crown, she knew it was far too late now. Renly had committed far too much to turn back now, had made far too many promises to his banners, and they in return to him.

In these parts, the Roseroad wound its merry way across a vast grassy plain that stretched unbroken between the banks of the Mander and the edges of the Wolfswood - perfect ground for a battle where the King could utilize the vast numbers at his disposal to his advantage. And up ahead, she could behold in the distance the camp of the enemy - considerably smaller in size than their own, though no less impressive; she could make out even from this distance that the tents were all laid out in neat and tidy rows. That, and what looked to be a trench and earthworks topped with stakes and even watchtowers at intervals of every few hundred feet surrounded the entire encampment. She frowned; Stannis's army must have been encamped and waiting here for several days then, for surely no army could have hastily erected all of these fortifications in only one night? Or perhaps was this another miracle of the Sky-People?

Yes, the Sky-People. Those mysterious people who came down from the skies like the Gods themselves, in enormous metallic flying ships, from worlds beyond the night stars. The tales of them that had wound their way down to the Stormlands had intrigued Brienne greatly. Renly had spoken at great length of the one they called Merchant Prince, he and his retainer Lady Vaenya, the Iron Woman. It filled Brienne with some inkling of hope to know that somewhere out there was a kindred soul much like herself, tall and strong, able to best even the Mountain of House Clegane with naught but her bare hands. But 'twas here too that Brienne despaired a little, for it was said Vaenya was beautiful beyond measure, face of perfect proportions, walked and danced and moved with a grace unknown to all but the finest dancers. To hear things like this were not particularly helpful to "Brienne The Beauty" (a name she oft-times heard herself being called behind her back, but nonetheless one she had since come to accept and wear with dignity).

It was also said that the Sky-People had bequeathed gifts to those houses that opened their arms to them - gifts in the form of fabulous trinkets, flameless lanterns and moving pictures, but also great weapons as well. Deadly weapons, so she had heard, magical ballistae that could shoot out dozens of bolts per second, capable of cutting through plate armor with ridiculous ease, and reaching way beyond the ranges of any crossbow or longbow. Could such weapons truly exist? Surely they could not, for this description sounded not of chivalry; it was barbaric slaughter!

Brienne's mind had difficulty reconciling this savagery with such a noble and enlightened people as the Sky-People (which they surely must be, if half the things that were said of them 'twere true). Could it be that the talk of these weapons was little more than tales spread by the Lions themselves, an excuse and attempt to save face for what was otherwise a humiliating defeat? Whatever it was, Renly seemed to take in all stories and reports he could from what happened on the Red Fork with careful consideration.

It also made it all the more imperative for Renly to take the capital and assert his right as King, before more of the Sky-People's gifts made their way into the hands of those who would oppose him. He, not they, must be the King who would be the face of the Realm to the Sky-People, enjoy their gifts, and to steer the Seven Kingdoms as a new century dawned.

Right in front of the King's party, on a small grassy knoll exactly in the middle of the two camps, there stood some a dozen riders, waiting. Of course they would be waiting, for he would be last to arrive. He had told her as much when they had set out; the first to arrive must always wait on the other, and Renly would do no waiting.

The helm wore heavily upon her head, restricting her mobility and peripheral vision, so Brienne had to quietly and subtly crane her neck left to right to take stock of the party facing them. At the center of them rode a sinewy man with greying hair. He wore a crown, far simpler than Renly's, and the vibrant sigil of a crowned stag within a flaming heart was splayed upon his breastplate, but otherwise his armor and other vestiments were unassuming and plain. But he was without doubt the king's brother - she could tell from the face and the permanent frown burned into it alone, after so many times that Renly had spoken of him.

The other riders accompanying him were a little more vibrant than he - a motley collection of lions, falcons, trouts, and the various Crownlands banners. But three of them in particular caught her eye. The first of these was one woman Brienne noted among them - lanky, dressed in leather armor with an open grey coat with brass buttons on top of it, the only splash of color being a roaring sable bear upon a green field across her breastplate. She wore a cap instead of a helm, so that Brienne could get a closer look at her face. She was everything Brienne was - tall and strong, and comfortable on the battlefield, and she was more at the same time - despite her long features, she looked like she would be elegant in dress and dance. Brienne despaired, wondering if this could possibly be Lady Vaenya? No, it could not, the bear sigil belonged to one of the Northern Houses, she recalled. Mormont, perhaps?

The other two were placed nearest to the king's brother. A clean-shaven man with short black hair, also donning grey coat-over-armor, but now with a snapping direwolf sigil. Beside him was a boy, similarly dressed, and beside him... if it was a dog, then it was larger than any dog Brienne had ever seen before, with silver fur and wicked yellow eyes, like a monster out of some chivalrous tale. The wolf stood by the boy's side, unmoving 'cept for its tail and its eyes; Brienne felt discomforted, as if the beast were staring right into her, knowing just what was underneath that helm. She quickly looked to her King and Queen, to make sure they were not too distressed by the creature's presence. Margaery, sweet and gentle lady as she was, was taken aback by the sight of it. Renly, however, was unmoved, and urged his destrier several paces forward - it was things like this that reminded Brienne that he was a true stag and heir to Storm's End through and through, and the Realm could not ask for a finer King than he.

"Son!" cried out one of the men of the opposing party. Brienne looked to see whom the speaker was. He was an older man with gray hair, though still well-built; his distinctive bronze-colored armor stood out from the others, and when she looked to his sigil, she saw iron stud driven into a bronze field, surrounded by runes. This could only be Bronze Yohn himself of House Royce; he had recognized Ser Robar among the Rainbow's ranks, an honor he had pledged himself to knowing he was only Yohn's secondborn.

Ser Robar's head shot to the side, looking to his King for guidance. Renly shook his head. Brienne was close enough that she could see it in Ser Robar's eyes under that helm that he wanted desperately to speak to his father, but then he dutifully carried out his King's command to ignore the old man's pleas. Instead, Renly was the one to initiate contact, riding several paces forward, peering closely at Stannis.

"The agreement was _'a dozen men'_ ," grumbled Stannis, counting the thirteen in the King's party.

"Oh please do pardon me, I was not aware _women_ counted towards that limit," replied Renly, blithely. "Gods above, can that truly be you, my lord brother? Goodness, has it been a while! Or, at the very least, it feels that way. My, how the world has changed so much in... what, not even a full year now."

"You took your time," remarked Stannis, impassively.

"My sincerest apologies, to move one hundred thousand men halfway 'cross the Realm is no mean feat, I assure you," boasted Renly. He actually had closer to eighty thousand, but Brienne did not correct him. Renly continued, looking over his brother's shoulder. "And Lord Stark! I almost did not recognize you without your beard. Is that a Sky-People-inspired fashion choice? Fancy seeing you here, beside my lord brother."

Lord Eddard spoke up: "Renly, please listen. I implore you. You must stop this madness now! You men are brothers, you grew up in the same castle. The castle I found the two of you together when I relieved the siege."

"Yes, besieged by the one and very same army you now march at the head of," added Stannis, staring past them to look at where Lords Mace and Tarly stood, accusingly. Tarly glared back and folded his arms, but said nothing.

Lord Eddard avoided Tarly's gaze and continued: "Renly. Stannis, you too, listen. If mine own sons ever squabbled like this, why, I'd give them a severe talking to, mayhaps even lock the three of them together in a room until they remembered they were family!"

"Little wonder then you brought your own son here today," replied Renly, "perhaps you mean to give a demonstration?"

"I'm not a boy," hissed Stark's boy, "Lord Tywin found that out the hard way." Beside him, the grey beast snapped and bared its teeth, prompting a little squeal from one of the Tyrells (oddly enough, not the Queen though. Her father perhaps?). Brienne for her part did not flinch, though her hand instinctively felt for her sword, just in case she need draw it at a split second's notice; she did not like this creature at all.

"I'm trembling with fear already," remarked Renly, defiantly. He looked back at Ned. "Fine strong lad he is. How old is he? Has he even sprouted his whiskers yet?"

The Stark boy looked sharply taken aback and angered; Lord Eddard too took insult, but did his best to remain calm, and spoke firmly. "Renly, please, we have no time for these games. The word of our law is clear: _a firstborn always comes before a secondborn, and a secondborn always before a thirdborn_. That is the law, that is the custom, that is the way it has always been."

Brienne noticed Ser Robar's fist clench and shoulders tighten a little at this unpleasant reminder of the reason he had ended up today on the field opposing his own lord father.

"And where do these laws come from?" declared Renly, "what if what is _law_ and what is _right_ , what is _good_ , what is _best_ for the Realm... are not always one and the same? Then what?" When Lord Stark was unable to reply quickly, the King continued: "the Royal succession is of paramount importance, a matter that touches and impacts upon us all. Is it fair, then, that not all have a say in the matter? Perhaps, then, we should call a Great Council, and put it to a vote amongst all the lords? Is that not how the Sky-People make their laws?"

"The Sky-People? What do they have to do with any of this?" asked Eddard, "and beside, if you must invoke them, you should know that they too have voiced their support for the legal heir, and they are very powerful. Listen. Do you remember the Tourney? Lord Kovacs, the Merchant Prince, and Lady Vaenya too? And you, Ser Loras! Surely you recall the day when Lady Vaenya saved your life?"

Unlike Ser Robar, Ser Loras did not seek his King's permission before blurting out to speak his mind. "Yes, 'tis true, Lord Stark, I owe my life to the Iron Lady, and for that, I am and remain as always grateful to Lord Kovacs." He then turned to look to his King. "But 'tis also true that since then, I have taken an oath. Renly is my King now, and I will do as he commands, fight in his name to the grave if I must! Now and always."

Renly smiled and then added: "Speaking of which, where, per chance, is Lady Vaenya? And where is Lord Kovacs? I do miss our conversations."

"Nowhere that I know of," admitted Ned, and Brienne could sense the honesty in his voice. "Another world, perhaps. But they matter little now; there are other Sky-People, other than Lord Kovacs, and they have ordained that the Iron Throne belongs to Stannis, as is rightfully his, by every one of our laws of succession. You were Master Of Laws; surely it would behoove you not to go against the law."

"Oh, believe me, no one amongst us here today understands and appreciates what the Sky-People are capable of more than I do," retorted the King, confidently, "which is why, of course, the Realm will be far better off under my kingship. Whom do you think they would prefer to see sit the Iron Throne? A crabbit old man with the personality of a lobster, stuck in his ways... or a vibrant and energetic king and queen, ready to boldly guide this Realm into the new century? You invoke the law, Lord Stark, but is it not the law of the Sky-People that the greater good must come first? The needs of the many over the needs of the one?"

"The United Nations have spoken," declared Stannis, firmly. "They are the supreme governing body of the Sky-People, and their word is the law to them. And their word is that I am the rightful heir to our late brother."

"And you truly believe they _want_ you?" inquired Renly, "that they would not simply discard you the moment you cease to be convenient to them, as they did Lord Tywin? Or to our dear late brother? You know I was with him when it happened."

"And somehow you know what the Sky-People want?" retorted Stannis.

"Do you know how the Sky-People choose their leaders?" replied Renly, "Lord Kovacs told me all about it. He calls it 'government by social media', if I do recall correctly. The most popular candidate wins, every time. In their world, it is of far greater imperative that their king look good and speak with a silver tongue than he be an able warrior, for he is the face of the realm for better or worse; a face that the people look to and trust. Image rules supreme in their society. If we are to be like them, then we too need a face. A face youthful and handsome, fresh and beautiful as the sunrise, a face that shall win the hearts of our own people, and theirs as well." He looked to his Queen and smiled. "And _we_ shall be that face!"

"A mummer's face; all image and empty promises and nothing more," sneered Stannis.

"Perhaps... like that Red Woman you follow?" pressed Renly. "Though if she is anything like what I hear, well, I cannot fault you for finding faith in your latter years, brother! Speak of the Stranger, where is she? I was hoping I would have the chance to meet her, I've heard much of her."

Brienne observed Stannis's hand clench, right next to where his sword hung; her own hand gripped her sword all the more tightly. _Touch him, Lord Stannis, and I will sentence you to die!_

"Enough!" blurted Eddard, "please! For the love of your late lord father! For the love of your late lady mother who bore you both! What would they think to see the two of you as you are now? What of Robert? Robert, your beloved elder brother, who was also like a brother to me as well? What would he do, seeing you tearing yourselves apart as it were?"

"Ah yes, dear Robert," replied Renly. "I suppose we should both honor the memory of our late elder brother. He did leave me Storm's End after all."

Stannis's face seemed to turn purple; how he had not yet lashed out was something of a mystery. Instead, he continued to grind his teeth, so furiously that even Brienne could hear it and wondered why they had not shattered yet.

"Tis a fact, brother," pressed Renly. "Nobody likes you! The whole of the realm denies it. Old men deny it with their death rattle, and unborn children deny it in their mothers' wombs. They deny it in Dorne and they deny it on the Wall. Lord Kovacs denied it, and when the rest of the Sky-People see you for what you truly are, so shall they. No one wants you for their king!"

"And yet," growled Stannis, calmly, "tis I who comes marching to you, five of the seven kingdoms at my back."

"Indeed," observed Renly, "the Crownlands and the Westerlands, whom, I hear, fought for Joffrey but mere months ago. A glib tongue you must have brother, to have turned them over so quickly! Mayhaps I was wrong about you. And the Vale too - I wonder what services you must have performed to pull darling Lady Lysa to your side. And to say nothing of the Northmen. You despised Ned, did you not? For taking your rightful seat on the Council as Hand to our late brother? And whatever happened to these whisperings I was hearing, that his son means to break from the rest of the Realm? Surely they could not be wrong, not all of them?"

"Enough," snarled Stannis. He drew his sword.

That was it. In a single motion, Brienne heaved her sword out from its scabbard and took a defensive stance, ready to protect the King. But Ser Loras had already beaten her; in an instant, he spurred his steed several paces forward and swept right, placing himself between the two brothers. His armor and blade glinted, threateningly. Elsewhere, clangs and swishes confirmed to Brienne's ears that true to their duties, Ser Robar and Emmon and Guyard and the other Rainbow Warriors had readied themselves to come to their king's aid. A couple dozen feet away, the monstrous dog growled and flashed its fangs at her. The Queen gasped and Lord Tyrell squealed.

Renly though, remained calm, even taking the time to pull a peach out of the pouch he kept on his belt, and take a bite out of it.

Stannis stared down his brother, gripping his sword tightly, but it quickly became clear did not mean to use it offensively; instead, he turned and pointed it towards the horizon. "Look over there. Look and see. I have at my command some forty-thousand men - the finest from Winterfell down to Cracklaw Point, from Lannisport to the Eyrie. I have fire-arms and cannon, the likes of which you have never seen or heard before." He turned back and now pointed his sword at the Tyrells; Lords Tyrell and Tarly were not amused by the gesture. He continued: "I held Storm's End against _those_ men over there for a year. I took Dragonstone from the dragons, and smashed the Iron Fleet off Fair Isle. I do not have the love of these men, 'tis true. Nor do I ask it of them. They fight in my name because it is the law. They fight because it is right. They fight because it is just and fair."

"Mother would be proud of us," mocked Renly as he took another bite out of the peach.

"And because I am fair," continued Stannis, "I will give you this one chance. Lay down your arms, brother. Swear your fealty, and I will pardon you and your Queen and all your followers this treason. You can keep Storm's End, and they, Highgarden. You shall have your old seat on my Council. I'll even name you my heir, until a son is born to me. This offer will remain open 'til dawn on the morrow."

Brienne quietly admitted to herself that to anyone else, Lord Stannis's proposition sounded a fair one. And if any of the whisperings going on about Stannis's lady wife were true, then there was a good chance Renly would inherit the Iron Throne from him after all.

But she also knew enough about Renly and the iconic streak of stubbornness that defined his house, all the way back to their forefather, Durran who built Storm's End, to know that it was unlikely that their King would ever conceivably acquiesce to such a proposal. Nor was his brother equally likely to accept when he returned with a gracious counter-offer, also along similar terms (down to yielding Storm's End to Stannis, for was that not what he always wanted?).

In the end, despite whatever good will Lord Stark tried to bring to the table, it was clear that the time for compromise was over now, and a confrontation was inevitable. The only question was who would prevail. But if Lady Brienne The Blue, The Beauty, The Shield Maiden Of The Sapphire Isle were to have any say in the matter, the love and brotherhood that Renly inspired would always prevail against cold and cruel men like his brother. After all, was that not how the knightly tales always went?

* * *

 _ **Writer's Notes** : I'll admit the chronology is a little confusing, but this chapter (and the following ones, as you will see), are a bit of a "flashback", taking place before the main storyline of Flying Northman begins. But I think these next few chapters will play an important role in "filling the reader in" on what's going on in Westeros, as well as give a little more depth to a very important character (and introduce some new ones)._

 _Just in case any reader is confused, here is a brief summary (if you're not confused, just ignore it): Stannis crowned himself King at the end of "Autumn's Frontier", but Renly declared himself King too and continues to defy Stannis (hence, why Brienne acknowledges only Renly as "the king" and not Stannis). Renly portrays himself as "the nice guy" but in truth he's just as stubborn and uncompromising as any Baratheon. This parley was just a sham, an excuse for Renly to show off and try to undermine his brother. He has the Stormlands and Reach backing him, giving him a huge army, as well as control over the Realm's vital breadbasket region.  
_

 _Meanwhile Stannis is backed by a loose coalition of the Crownlands (which he controls), the North and Riverlands (thanks to Ned Stark), the Westerlands (thanks to the peace treaty between the Starks and Lannisters made at the end of "Autumn's Frontier"), and the Vale (for reasons that will be explored later on). Despite this, Stannis's army is smaller than Renly's due to the losses suffered during Tywin's Riverlands campaign, and also because the Vale has only just joined in and hasn't yet mustered their full strength._


	13. A Death To Knighthood (Part 2)

**A Death To Knighthood (Part II)  
**

 **Roose  
**

The Dreadlord had remained awake, anticipating the call; as one of the most pre-eminent lords of the North and veteran commanders of the First Army (and not to mention one of the earliest supporters of Lord-General Robb's newfound militaristic ambitions), being entrusted with a key part of the battle on the morrow was only natural. So when one of the bannermen brought word that the King was holding a final council before the anticipated battle, it was as expected.

Roose Bolton was now of nine-and-thirty years of age, and had seen a fair number of battles in his time. He remembered well the Trident, and King's Landing after that, or the war against the Krakens during Pyke's rebellions. No matter how one went about it, warfare was always a messy and chaotic and disorganized affair - on the battlefield, but even off it too, in the haphazard layout of the camps, the sight of misshapen tents lain out every which way accompanied by the stench of the collective sweat and droppings of thousands of men and horse.

Not like the camp tonight though. Tonight, as with every night now, the tents of the First Army looked all identical in the twilight, and all lined up neatly in rows upon rows, with large open spaces between each row to allow for the men to gather, work, light their campfires and cook, and, in the morning, to line up neatly in their formations, whether to march or to make battle, even before leaving the safety of the palisade that surrounded them. Even the smell had improved greatly once the bannermen had been trained and ordered where and how to dig the latrines away from camp. All very orderly, very disciplined. He approved deeply. Indeed, the effect was not lost on the allies who joined them, and gradually, every night on the march, he could observe the tents of the Riverlands, Westerlands, Vale, and Crownlands banners all doing their best to emulate those of the First Army.

The discipline he beheld had not come without a great cost, though it was a cost being paid in time and patience and coin rather than blood (or rather, it was being indeed paid in blood, just in the blood of the other side, so he noted with great approval). The common soldiers had roundly loathed their training-sergeants when the army was forming, the beatings and the drills and the menial tasks; but they gradually came to love the camaraderie and the uniforms, and to adore Lord General Robb as he led them, riding alongside them, from the training ground, to glory on the banks of the Red Fork. The coin now lining their pockets probably helped too. Not to mention the hope and prospect of one day being selected to serve in one of those much-vaunted artillery and rifle units.

It made him wonder if there were other Sky People ideas on how to unite fear and love of the leader in the minds of the rabble. Roose had suspected, for a while, that the way things were going, that Lord Robb might try to push for the North once more to be free of the Seven Kingdoms, to forge its own path, and if so, why, there were plenty of opportunities there to pursue for the Dreadfort. Mayhaps even a... he caught himself in the act of thinking of Domeric again, and of Ramsay, and quickly scolded himself and reminded himself to push such thoughts to the back of his mind.

In any case, any whispers of "Northern Independence" that had been going about were quickly laid to rest when Lord Ned rejoined their ranks and declared their fealty to Stannis. Mildly disappointing at first, though Roose knew Lord Stark's character well enough that he could not blame him. He'd met Stannis before, during the Rebellion and again at Pyke, and was pleased to see the man had not changed at all by the time they met him again in the capital. If nothing else, he was upfront and direct in all matters in his kingship, if predictable. Which suited Roose just fine - a King needed a Hand, and if Lord Ned was reluctant to remain in the South as so sayeth the word going around camp, then that left...

Those thoughts, of home and of the future, departed when he entered the command tent. It was, as always, a simple affair, bereft of any signs of opulence or grandeur, despite the importance of the men filling it. The famed austerity of the Northmen seemed to suit the King just fine; he was seated at the head of the table, a simple crown adorning the top of his balding head, grinding his teeth. He was flanked to his immediate right by that former smuggler, the one they called the Onion Knight, who stood quietly and kept to himself, whilst Lord Ned stood by his left side. There was no food to be served nor wine to be drunk here tonight; it was the King's insistence that each lord take supper in their own tent or with their own men; the command tent was to be used purely for strategy and planning.

Instead, all eyes were on the center of the room, where Lord Robb was arranging little painted blocks on the large paper map, the cold, unflickering electric light of the Sky-People lamp casting hard edged shadows across the board. So many houses had joined the Kingshost now that there hadn't been time for a sculptor to carve little figurines to represent the different forces (such as Stark wolves, Bolton flayed men, Karstark sunbursts or Mallister eagles, falcons for the Valemen, flaming stags and lions and spirals and so forth), so simple blocks of painted wood had to suffice. Beside him, Lords Mallister and Royce were interjecting and proposing alternate arrangements; the three of them were arranging the likely deployment of Renly's banners based on the scouts' reports on how they had encamped tonight.

Roose took a moment to take a quick account of who was present. They were a motley collection indeed, from Last Hearth all the way down to Massey's Hook. They had first marched south from Moat Caillin half a year ago now, nearly nineteen thousand men strong. They had bolstered their numbers with the Riverlords, but following the Red Fork, they had left a garrison in the Riverlands under the command of the Blackfish to help restore order to the war-ravaged countryside, along with most of their wounded to allow them rest and recovery. In their place, they had taken, as stipulated by the terms of the peace agreement, Ser Addam Marbrand and five thousand of the finest troops that House Lannister had left standing. The purpose of this was to ensure the Westerlords' loyalty to King Stannis, as well as to deprive them of any remaining forces with which they could threaten the Riverlands (as if they truly could - the West had already bled pretty dearly on the banks of the Red Fork; indeed, it was telling that most of these "remaining finest fighting men" were of foot rather than of horse).

Then they had reached the capital, though by that time it had already fallen to the King with relative ease - a mix of the privations suffered by the citizenry, the words spread by one Lord Phineas Edgerton, and of course King Joffrey's own monstrous mismanagement of the whole affair, had seen to that. With the capital firmly under his rule and the little bastard and his mother sent packing off to Gods-know-where, the rest of the Crownlands houses quickly fell in line and declared for Stannis.

It was around that time that Lady Lysa too had finally come 'round and declared for the King (perhaps a little poking and prodding was involved; by now it was no secret any longer that she had been involved with Lord Baelish). The Royces, Templetons, Hunters, and Redforts were only far too happy to answer the call of Lord Ned and quickly mustered several thousand banners to send to the capital. Thus, between the contributions of the North, the Riverlands, the Westerlands, the Vale, and the Crownlands, all in all some forty thousand were gathered here today under the flaming hearted stag banner. All told, they were comfortably larger than the army Lord Tywin had had at his disposal half-a-year ago, but even then they were still vastly outnumbered by the force now encamped just a few miles away.

A quick look around confirmed to Roose that he was among the last to arrive. "Your Grace," he began, bowing slightly as he looked to the King, "I take it that the rebel leader has once more turned down your gracious offer?" He was careful not to invoke the fact that Renly was the King's brother, lest that ruffle the stag's fur.

"There will be no peace while _Lord_ Renly continues to assert his claim to the Throne," fumed Stannis.

Roose nodded and turned, speaking softly: "General Stark. What new surprise are you planning for the roses?"

He knew that the Young Wolf had originally wanted to lay an ambush in the Kingswood and wait for Renly to come to them. Roose and many of his fellow lords had approved of this strategy. Many others, however, opposed this, and that number included Lord Ned as well as the King himself.

For starters, over the last few weeks, the situation in the capital had turned from bad to worse. Initially, it had been hoped that with the Riverlands at peace and Stannis's fleet no longer blockading Blackwater Bay, that once more food would flow into the capital's crying mouths. That had not materialized; much of the Riverlands lay in ruin thanks to the lions, and whatever shipments of grain now flowed into King's Landing ports were but a small drop in a bucket of a half-million starving souls (and usually at the mercy and exorbitant prices of unscrupulous Essosi merchants). There was no choice but to reopen the Roseroad and bring Highgarden back into compliance sooner rather than later.

The other complication to the Young Wolf's plan was that his own Lord Father Ned had insisted on trying to find a diplomatic solution up until the last possible moment, with regular parleys with Lord Renly over the last few days, and the King had acquiesced, perhaps agreeing that a quicker end, if possible, was preferable. The latest of these had been naught more than a few hours ago. As much as Roose disagreed, he expected that Ned would cling to his honor and the hope of talking some sense into Renly.

Still, no one was truly surprised that today's efforts to treat with the "King Of The South" would enjoy just as much success as all previous ones leading up to it - which was to say not very much. And now with the bulk of the army having arrived and itching to push onwards to the capital, battle was inevitable.

"I hate to point out the obvious," began Robb, "but we are outnumbered over two to one and across an open plain, and this time we will not have the Red Fork to shield one flank. I'd say Renly chose this field rather well."

"Tarly," corrected Patrek Mallister, "I'm certain it's Lord Tarly who's actually in charge of strategy; Renly's all good looks but he's nothing on the battlefield. Trust me, I've seen him tourney. Fought him once even. And beat him, of course." He looked to the King. "No offense intended to spite your family's honor, Your Grace." The King said nothing but continued to grind his teeth.

"Tarly. Hmmm, that name sounds rather familiar," quipped Theon, "of course! Yes, he's that fat, good-for-nothing slob who works for the Sky-People! I remember him alright, served us tea and cookies last time I was at the colony. Well, if the apple doesn't fall far from the tree..."

"Disinherited son," interjected Lady Dacey Mormont, correcting Theon, "though if a man could do that to his own son, I suppose that shows you what kind of an enemy we're dealing with, doesn't it?"

"Do we have a final tally on the Reachlords?" asked Lord Yohn Royce, quickly. Perhaps he wanted to get back on topic, thought Roose, or perhaps all this talk of antagonizing one's offspring brought up the unpleasant point that one of his sons, Ser Robar, was encamped right now with the opposing side.

"Sixty thousand, roughly," replied Dacey, "we counted banners from most of the major houses - Tyrell, Tarly, Florent, Redwyne, Rowan, Hightower..."

"Oakheart as well," added Ser Addam, "I take it they didn't take too kindly to what happened to Ser Arys."

"Ser Oakheart died as he chose, in the service of the King he swore to protect," bawled Ser Godry Farring, grinning, "it's just the Lord's will that turned out to be the wrong king."

"Still, sixty-thousand doesn't sound terrible," mused Ser Justin Massey.

"And another twenty thousand Stormlanders," added Dacey.

"I've faced worse odds before," shrugged Justin, turning to look Dacey in the eyes and smiling.

"Aye, 'e's got a point," bawled Smalljon Umber, "I daresay one o' us is worth three o' these Southron pansies anyday. Their sigil's a _rose_ fer cryin' out loud!"

"I don't think they're weak just because their sigil is a rose," cautioned Ned, casting a side-glance to the King, who was glaring at the Smalljon. If anyone knew just what a threat a fully armed and operational Tyrell army could be, it was Stannis. That, and the fact that this entire campaign, the Northmen (and the Umbers in particular) had had difficulty meshing in well with the others. He supposed Lord Umber's very public offhand remark about how "even their gods are wrong!" had done little to endear them to the followers of the Seven, but especially those among the King's men who had adopted this foreigner, this so-called "Lord Of Light". All of the lords and ladies here tonight were declared for Stannis, there was no question about that, but it was issues like this that kept raising that uncomfortable thought of what would happen after all of this was over.

"What about the Red Lady?" asked Smalljon, "I 'eard she can wave 'er 'and or somemat, and poof! Make all 'em flowers burst into flame."

"Enough," ordered Stannis, "Lord Stark. You were saying?"

"Go on, son," implored Lord Ned.

Robb nodded, and began: "right, as has been pointed out, we are outnumbered two-to-one, and Lord Renly (or Tarly, if you prefer), chose terrain favorable to their numbers. And if any of them heard anything about what happened at the Red Fork, I doubt they'll be rushing to repeat Tywin's mistakes."

"So no stupidly charging all their horses in one great mass right into the waiting mouths of our guns. A pity," remarked Theon. "No offense intended, Ser Marbrand, you did well with what you were given."

"None taken," said Ser Addam, curtly, though the cold glare in his eyes suggested otherwise. Great resentment still burned fiercely between the Westerlords, and the Northerners and Riverlords, and Roose knew that only the peace treaty signed between Lords Ned and Tyrion was keeping them from turning upon each other. Well, that and the Sky People's influence too.

"But," continued Robb, trying to keep everyone's attention, "we have firepower and experience on our side. I think Renly's best hope to defeat us is to use his numbers and try to envelop us."

"Which is why I say we go all-or-nothing on this one," interjected Ser Godry Farring, "they'll spread out, but they don't have rifles like we do, nor this magic of the radio. Which is why I say we go on the offensive. We gather all our force in the middle and charge, break their center, and then make for their king. And then watch as their entire army crumbles around it."

"Have you gone out of your senses?" asked Dacey, "we would be dangerously exposing our flanks. And I do not think the Stormlanders will break as easily as you seem to believe. And if this idea of yours fails, what then?"

Ser Godry glared down at Dacey, as if having a woman of all people address him in that matter was pure anathema to him. He gritted his teeth.

"I agree with Lady Mormont," spoke up Robb, "I'm afraid our most important units, the artillery, are lethal but not very mobile. We just can't go about throwing everyone else around the battlefield and risk leaving them exposed."

"So what are you proposing, Young Wolf?" snarled Godry with enough poison in his voice that the King had to raise his hand for silence. That shut him up; the big knight hung his head, and stepped back from the table. The King then motioned for Robb to continue.

"Right. For this battle, we'll err on the side of caution," explained Robb, continuing and trying not to look perturbed in the slightest. He finished arranging the blocks in what looked to be a fairly conventional deployment: two lines of infantry, the frontline and the reserve, with cavalry at the flanks.

Roose laid his hands on the table and peered in for a closer look. This entire campaign, the Young Wolf had been the aggressive one, always bold and daring, quick to seize the initiative. So to hear him exercising restraint for once was a surprise. There was something off about this, and about the deployment too just from looking at it. His suspicions were confirmed when he heard one of the others at the table, a Crownlander, protest the placement of those troops hastily raised from the capital, from Rosby, and from Duskendale.

"I appreciate your confidence in our swordsmanship," remarked Lord Renfred Rykker, observing the lowly painted blocks, "but I hope I'm not being too modest in admitting that we can't hold a line that thin."

"He's right, I think we're overextended," observed Ser Jasper Redfort. "Maybe if you put some of those much-vaunted rifles of yours in the center?"

"I had considered it," said Robb, "but I think they are best placed at the flanks."

"But then that leaves the center rather obviously weak, doesn't it?" bemoaned Lord Rykker. He paused. "Obviously weak... you want Renly to target our center, don't you?"

"That solves one problem," replied Robb, "if Renly thinks he can win by making for the center, that's where he'll go. That way, he might be less inclined to try to envelop us."

"And what, pray tell, if he actually succeeds in breaking the center?" inquired Lord Yohn. "What then?"

"Aye, that's the other problem," admitted Robb. He turned to look around at everyone, but particularly at those who would be assigned to the area in question, and raised his voice so all could hear. "In which case, we'll just have to dig in, pray to whatever gods you believe in, and hold. Which I have no doubt you will. You, my lords, held the line at the Red Fork. Years before that, all of you held the line at the Ruby Ford. Tomorrow, you _will_ hold the line once more."

Roose maintained an impassive gaze. He felt confident that Robb would not lightly risk the better part of five entire Kingdoms' fighting men, nor appeal to some idealistic platitude as his primary tactic, so there had to be more to it. He focused hard on the map splayed out before him, playing out in his head this complicated game of chess the Young Wolf was planning for the roses.

Their deployment would have been perfectly serviceable in any other battle, but here, the sheer weight of numbers that the Reach would bring to bear was bound to cause the center to almost bend over backwards. Renly (or perhaps more accurately Lord Tarly) would recognize the weakness, and start pouring more and more troops into the center. That would certainly relieve pressure on the flanks, though that still left the matter of how well their cavalry would hold up against Renly's knights.

And then it occurred to him just what exactly the Young Wolf had in mind, and he had to smile.

Later that night, after further discussions about deployments and further whinging from Lord Rykker and a few others and further grinding of the teeth by the King, it came time for the various lords to retire to their quarters and rest for what was expected to be a hefty day ahead of them. Roose, however, made sure to find Lord Ned and his son as they were making their way to the First Army's section of the camp.

"It must be that little bit of Bolton blood in you, my lord," remarked Roose, his voice cold though for the first time, a genuine smile reached his eyes. "We flayed men, but you plan to flay an army."


	14. A Death To Knighthood (Part 3)

**A Death To Knighthood (Part III)**

 **Brienne**

"Feast, and make merry, my brothers," declared King Renly, loudly, raising a gilded goblet high, "for tomorrow, we put an end to this war and rejoice in the dawning of a new age for all the Realm!"

A raucous round of cheers and applause broke out, and echoed throughout the command tent. A plentiful spread had been laid out before the high lords of the Reach and Stormlands; entire hogs freshly slaughtered and spitted, quail's eggs, mutton chops, and a score of different beer breads, fresh from the camp's ovens. Even the vegetable stew was spiked with a dozen spices of Dornish and Essosi origin. Wine by the barrel was being rolled in and poured out, of every vintage from Arbor Golds to Highgarden's very own hippocras.

And at the center of it all sat their King and his beautiful Queen, surrounded by their ever vigilant and resplendent Rainbow Guard. Every night along the campaign trail had been a feast, but tonight's in particular was special and sentiments ran high. From her station right behind the King, Brienne kept a steady watch over the festivities. It was as such that she noted that not all who partook were as jubilant.

"Your Grace," began Lord Randall Tarly, well into the feast, from where he was seated a few chairs away. "Forgive my concern, but something is rather peculiar about this whole situation. If Lord Stannis were smart, and I have little doubt that he is, then he would have had his banners remain hidden in the Kingswood, and attempted to lay an ambuscade for us there. We have twice his number, but he marches to meet us out here, upon these grassy plains, regardless. I have fought him before, and I know he is not one to take a risk lightly. I think he intends to win."

"Or perhaps he let his honor get the better of him," offered Ser Garlan, the queen's brother. "He always was a stubborn one, if half the things I hear of him are true. Gods, I wager he would offer parley even if he did intend to ambush us."

"Or perhaps he is growing desperate?" suggested Lord Alestar Florent, "Every day we keep the Roseroad closed is another day King's Landing inches ever closer towards starvation. 'Twas the mob that overthrew Joffrey, opened the gates, and gave Stannis the Iron Throne; 'tis the mob that can take it away."

"Are you so sure about that?" asked Lord Estermont, "now with trade restored? Surely they must be once more receiving grain from the Riverlands? What about the Free Cities? And what of the Sky People? If I recall correctly, they have sky ships that can sail through the air, faster and carrying far more food than any ship of the sea ever could."

"The Riverlands are still reeling from Lord Tywin's rampage, the lions made certain of that," interjected Lord Mace Tyrell. "And even then, I can assure you that whatever grain the capital receives from either the Trident or from across the Narrow Sea is but a fraction of what they receive from Highgarden." He rubbed his fat hands together, greedily. Of course he would know; the revenues and taxation of the trade along the Roseroad were, of course, very near and dear to the fortunes of House Tyrell.

"Aye. The Sky-People have weapons and steel and other wonders aplenty, but it appears one thing they are lacking in is food," added King Renly, "I heard no less from Lord Kovacs himself. We were dining together once - him, myself, Lady Vaenya - and I remember him being rather complimentary of our cuisine. Their own fare, apparently, is quite terrible, and their colony relies on the North ( _the North_ , of all places!) just to meet their basic needs." He smiled as he took another bite into a roasted hog's leg, grease dripping from the ends of his mouth. "It seems even the Sky-People can not feed a half-million mouths."

Brienne thought carefully about all she was hearing. She had never seen King's Landing or Oldtown before, but she had heard enough to imagine what they were like. A half million people! Evenfall Hall, the largest castle on all of Tarth, had hardly a hundredth of that number. And she knew well enough from her lord father's daily dealings and managing of their house's affairs that even this number could be difficult to feed at times - the rugged cliffs and coves of the Sapphire Isle were beautiful, but not exactly the most productive for growing (at least not like the vast plantations and orchards she had seen in her time here in the Reach), and ofttimes the legendary tempests and squalls that gave Shipbreaker Bay its name made fishing difficult at best.

Thus, the army of the Reach had marshaled an incredible stockpile of food the likes of which she had never imagined before - the baggage train alone spanned miles from front to rear, and with more food arriving all the time from Highgarden. So much food gathered in one place so as to make even the most gluttonous sick thinking about it. Enough food not just to keep all eighty thousand men adequately provisioned for the length of this campaign and of the expected siege to come, but also to relieve the plight of the commonfolk once Renly, resplendent in his armor and cape, would come riding in through the gates to cheering multitudes and showers of flower petals. Just like the heroes in those old tales.

But if Stannis could be defeated tomorrow, then such a siege would be unnecessary. For all of these reasons, Brienne concluded, Renly _must_ win on the morrow, so that the suffering of the Realm could be relieved more quickly. If Renly would win, then all of the problems that have plagued the Seven Kingdoms throughout this wasteful war would surely be quickly absolved. The bounty of Highgarden would once more flow into the mouths of the wanting citizenry. The Realm would be united under a true king, youthful and energetic and ready to inspire and lead them all into the next century. The Sky-People would have no choice but to recognize Renly and Margaery as the rightful rulers of the Realm, and once they would, they would realize that they should have been behind them from the start.

Of all of these, she was certain. And still, however, at the same time, she could not help but think of all the people who would perish in the mean time. Men, women, and children too, slowly and painfully starving to death thanks to the Tyrells' embargo. This was certainly not a noble way to go - they were smallfolk, not knights, that much was true, but were they not equally as worthy of a dignified death? Was their suffering truly necessary to achieve their cause, or was there a better way of putting Renly on the Iron Throne?

"Something bothers you?" asked the King. Brienne snapped out of it to realize he was addressing her. He must have read the look of doubt on her face.

Brienne hesitated to answer immediately; she did not want to give the appearance of disloyalty. 'Twas true that, as a trusted knight of the Rainbow Guard, her counsel would always be invaluable to her King, and that might even entail questioning his choices from time to time (such as the necessity of inflicting such hardship upon a half-million people who had no real say in the matter of who sat the Iron Throne) - questions as these were not meant to undermine him, but to test him and ensure that he only ever acted with utmost wisdom and justice. However, to do so now, in front of all the other banners and on the eve of battle no less - it would surely denigrate herself in front of the others, perhaps bring shame unto House Tarth. Without doubt at least some of the banners might be tempted to view such a question as an attack on the fundamental righteousness of the cause for which they had pledged themselves - Brienne, sadly, had a long history of having everything she ever said or did receive undue scrutiny from all around her.

She looked again to Renly, and he looked back, expecting an answer; she decided to try and deflect the matter. "Your Grace," she began, "aye, there is a small matter that troubles me."

"Of course there is," muttered Lord Tarly, "she is a woman."

"Perhaps 'tis her time of the moon?" offered another of the gathered lords, mockingly.

"Brienne the Beaut!" she thought she heard another say, somewhere out there, though she could not be sure.

"Speak your mind," said Renly, ignoring the banter around him.

"I have been wondering," she began, cautiously, "as to how we shalt dispose of the pretender King once we emerge victorious on the morrow." She bowed slightly to reaffirm her loyalty. "It is Stannis's folly not to relinquish his claim to the throne, aye, 'tis true. But... he still is your blood, Your Grace. If... if perhaps you mean to offer him to take the black, then I would be honored to be the one to take him as my charge up to Castle Black. For you, Your Grace."

"She would be a _perfect_ fit for Stannis," snickered one of the other lords.

"You would do well to hold your tongue, woman," sneered another.

"No, no, she speaks the truth," spoke Renly, calmly raising a hand for silence. "No amount of animus between us will ever absolve the fact that Stannis is my brother by blood." He paused, and made sure all were listening intently. "But... alas, sometimes a King's honor and duty, to his beloved banners and to the Realm, must take precedence over any and all bonds of fraternity. The Lannisters, vile creatures as they are, killed my brother and our beloved King Robert, and brought shame and ruin unto the Realm! But in doing as such, the Lannisters have taught all of us a vital lesson: that perhaps it is time for a necessary change. If Stannis rules the Realm, then nothing will change. He is unloved by any, scorned by all, and he rules not by love nor inspiring loyalty, but by force and fear alone. Surely by now you have all heard of the Red Woman he keeps? Of how he so callously burned the Seven we were raised to honor? His banners and the Sky People may not realize it, but he cannot ever hope to hold this Realm together; were he to keep it, why, I wager all will fall apart into _chaos_ by winter's arrival! Tell me, my bannermen, is that what you desire?"

"NAY!" came the unanimous calls from around the table.

Once more Renly dramatically paused, taking a moment to savor the reactions of his followers, brethren and sworn swords alike, before continuing. "Lady Brienne," he declared loudly, "if you so wish to honor me by being the one to dispose Stannis, however that may came about, then I see no reason why you should not. Should he choose to take the black, then yes, you shall have the charge of taking him to Castle Black yourself! Should he choose otherwise, then, well, you know what to do, I am sure."

"Thank you, Your Grace," replied Brienne, bowing. "I shall not fail you."

"Think nothing of it," smiled Renly, "the Sky People have great warrior women among their ranks. It is time we show them we do too. Whatever they do, we can too! Put me on that Iron Throne, Lady Brienne Of Tarth, and I will carry you and all the Realm forwards into the future. A bright future, one full of endless promise, and where we will be the equals of the Sky People, I promise you."

More cheers and applause erupted around the room. Brienne smiled; no matter what became of them tomorrow, she had never felt happier in her life than she did now, fighting for her King, for her ideals, and for the future.

* * *

"I insist, Your Grace, that we press for a nighttime attack," began Ser Loras, later that night as he and Brienne escorted their King to his tent. Sers Emmon and Robar, meanstwhile, had the charge of the Queen, in her separate quarters. Loras continued: "Why wait for daybreak? They won't know what hit them."

"And have it said that I won by treachery, with an unchivalrous attack?" replied Renly, "I gave them my word - the terms of the peace shall remain open until the morn. Then we attack, but not before. Besides, have you ever tried to move eighty thousand men around by torchlight? And I thought doing so in broad daylight was already a feat in and of itself!"

"And their camp is guarded by trench and palisade both," observed Brienne. "Our numbers and horses would be negated by such a defense."

"Aye, 'tis true," said Renly, "I do not believe it either what our scouts are saying, that this entire fortification was hastily erected in the span of a few hours, but regardless, a wall is a wall. No, we shall wait for them to be out on the field, bereft of any such defenses, and only then make our move. Is that all that troubles you?"

"No, Your Grace," replied Brienne, truthfully, especially now that they were by themselves and outside the presence of the other lords and their glaring looks. "I could not help but think again about these fabled 'fire-arms' these Northmen are said to have in their possession. Before he died, Lord Tywin commanded an army of such great size and power second only to Highgarden. He commanded in his service such names as Ser Jaime The Kingslayer, Ser Gregor The Mountain, the Crakehalls, and many others. And in spite of all this, he lost to a boy."

"A boy and his dog," corrected Renly. "No, you raise a valid concern, and I have been thinking on this. These fire-arms - they are powerful and deadly, certainly, but they are not invincible. Like arrows, they will run out eventually, they take time to nock and load each next shot, and their accuracy depends highly on the man wielding it."

Loras was adamant. "I have fought archers many a time before. Loose me upon them, I urge you, and the knights of Highgarden shall not fail you. If you so desire, I shall even bring you the head of the Stark boy's hairy monster!"

"You will do no such thing," said Renly, calmly, "I will not risk you lightly in battle." He paused, then quickly turned to Brienne. "Nor you, Lady Brienne. All of you, my Rainbow Knights, are each a brother, or sister, to me. Which is why we shall leave the bulk of the fighting to the foot. I have already discussed these stratagems with Lords Tarly and your father. You will stay with me, and we shall remain safely in the rear, with the reserve."

"Leave the glory to the footmen?" pressed Loras.

"I intend to let Lord Tarly handle them," continued the King. "He is, and I say this with some resignation, of greater aptitude and patience at commanding the foot than I." Renly turned to the table at the foot of his bed, where he kept his map, a handful of elegantly carved figurines splayed out across its surface, like pieces in a game of chess. "We will spread out across a wide front; Stannis cannot hope to match us for width, lest he stretch his lines dangerously thin. We shall divide our horses into three - at the right flank, at the left, and then our reserve at the center. But we shall not attack immediately, no. Only probing attacks here and there, we need to test their fire-arms, find out where they are and where they are at their weakest. Until then, our horses will hold theirs in place, and once our foot have theirs encircled, only then shall we commence the final attack and put an end to my brother's ambitions."

Brienne looked at the deployment the King was proposing, and playing it out in her head. Letting the foot do the bulk of the fighting tomorrow was not quite how she had expected the battles to unfurl when she had first answered Renly's call. All her life had she fought and trained, aspiring to live up to the ideals of knighthood, and now her first real battle and she would be sitting it out? But... "if that is as Your Grace wishes it, we shall obey."

"I know this is not quite what you might have imagined things to play out," said Renly, reproachfully. "But worry not, for surely simply to be by my side tomorrow is glory and honor enough for you, is it not? Now go, Lady Brienne, best get some rest. We have a Realm to be won on the 'morrow."

"Your Grace, if it please you, I wish to remain here, on guard duty tonight with Ser Loras." As she spoke, Brienne cast a side glance at the shadows around them, cast upon silken walls by the scented candles burning throughout the King's spacious tent, as if half-expecting one of them to suddenly come alive and strike at them. "What if Lord Stannis means to send an assassin at this hour?"

"If my brother ever intended to send one, surely he would have done so by now," remarked Renly, "why drag forty thousand men halfway 'cross the continent, when he could have sent just one, and months ago! Stannis's sin is one of stubbornness, and not stupidity." His gaze turned to Ser Loras, and Ser Loras looked back. "Worry not, for Loras shall have the honor of guarding my bedside tonight. Lady Brienne Of Tarth; you are a credit to your sex, a true knight if I have ever met one. And for that you have earned a good rest. Good night and sleep well."

Brienne bowed, and left. Though as she pulled the tent flap closed behind her, she could not help but wonder if she heard a fluttering of wings and the cry of a bird above her.

* * *

 **Melisandre**

A lowly raven swooped low over the camp, the innumerable tents of the faithless stretching seemingly to the horizon, looking more a city of houses in the moonlight. With darkly feathered wings, the raven flapped and pulled up again, and cawed.

Melisandre withdrew her head from the hearth. The flames crackled fiercely there, spitting cinders and embers, though she herself was unburnt, pale skin and auburn hair as smooth and perfect as ever. The fire bothered her far less than the visions she had beheld.

 _Melisandre_ , spoke a voice in her head, deep but firm and even calming. _Something troubles you?_

 _My Lord_ , she thought, in response, _it is just that I worry for our Champion. I should be with him right now, by his side. Such bloodshed as that which is surely to come tomorrow could be avoided if only I were there with him, if only I could use my gifts for his aid, if only, if only..._

 _I understand your trepidation. But worry not, for he is my chosen Champion. Have faith in him, and Azor Ahai shall triumph over any enemy that fate will throw in his path. No Melisandre, you belong here. Your work here, in this city of despair and desolation, to help bring these lost and damned people to the Light, is of far greater import than any assist you could possibly be upon the battlefield tomorrow._

Melisandre frowned, though she saw and understood the truth in her Lord's words. This wretched city, this King's Landing, was as large as any she had ever encountered in Essos, but more unruly, filthier, crawling with hunger and disease and stink at every turn. The treachery of Highgarden had exacted a terrible toll on the welfare of the people. Since taking the Iron Throne, the King had ceased his naval blockade and reopened the docks, and whatever food now flowed into the capital was a small and welcome relief, though still far from sufficient to fill every crying mouth and belly. Every day, more reports came to the Red Keep and to the Queen, of more deaths, more despair and discontentment brewing in Flea Bottom.

But it was precisely at times like this that the people, at their lowest points, became willing to open their hearts and souls to the Light. And sure enough, the Queen's Men had been out and about in the streets, preaching their gospel and lending their charity out to the people in any way they could. And their efforts were now being repaid in kind by the presence of a small handful of the faithful to be found among the people - not many, but growing steadily as each day brought more who were willing to see the truth in the Lord Of Light's ways.

Who knows, give them a few years time... she gazed out of her window, upon the retched expanses of King's Landing. In the distance, the Great Sept Of Baelor towered over the homes of the common people, a monument to false gods. Oh, how she would love nothing better than to one day lead the faithful in a march up those steps, throw out the High Septon, put a flame to the idols that resided within, and rededicate the whole structure instead to the glory of the One True Lord. But that would have to wait. All in good time.

 _If it helps_ , said the voice again, reading her every thought, _perhaps you should try and remain focused on the next task. These men of the Vale profess loyalty for my chosen champion only because their matriarch professes it. And she, in turn, professes loyalty only because... well, you know why, I am sure._

Melisandre nodded.

 _When Lady Arryn arrives in the capital, I foresee that Azor Ahai will still be out in the Reach on campaign. Therefore, it shall fall to you to see to her, accommodate her and attend to her needs... and, of course, see to it that her loyalty is never in question again._

As you wish, My Lord.

* * *

 _ **Writer's Notes:** here's just a brief recap for those who forgot the events of Book1, since it was years ago (though if you don't need the recap, then just ignore this next bit). _

_At the end of Book1, Melisandre noticed that her powers were growing stronger, and she was also contacted by an entity claiming to be the Lord Of Light. At his command, she disposed of Baelish, and her next target is Lysa Arryn (who appears to believe Baelish is still alive, as that's how she was coaxed into declaring the Vale's support for Stannis).  
_


	15. A Death To Knighthood (Part 4)

**A Death To Knighthood (Part IV)**

 **Roose**

The Dreadlord sat astride his mount, and looked around him. Behind him, he saw a mass of mixed drab greys, silvery steels, browns, and the occasional touches of Bolton pink. The horsemen of the Dreadfort they were, several hundred riders strong, but they were only one of several companies that made up a larger force of some six thousand horses guarding the northern flank. Overall command of the right wing was held by the King himself, though he and any of the other lords were nowhere to be seen. Only the chattering on that ever-mystifying box that was "the radio", securely carried on the back of an able horseman who never left his side, reminded him that they were in fact present on the field today, just in a different part of the army. Roose had never before served in a host of this size.

And yet, even then, its size was completely eclipsed by the titanic rabble gathering but a mile away. In the distance, he could see them. A line of black dots of men and horses peppering the horizon, little banners fluttering between them.

"About bloody time Renly decided to show his face," spoke the lieutenant beside him, a Dreadfort man by the name of Daeniel Locke - his bloodline had served the Boltons for as far back as before the Boltons swore themselves to Winterfell; his brother, Noah, had died on the Red Fork. Atop his armor, Daeniel wore the long grey all-weather coat that had become standard in the First Army Of The North, though the clothes he wore underneath and the patches he wore on his shoulder still proudly showed dashes of pink that showed from whence he had came before becoming part of this "First Army Of All The North".

"A ruse," observed Roose, "by keeping us waiting on him, Renly means to impress upon all the idea that he is the one in charge of the situation. Same as with the parley yesterday. It also helps him evaluate our deployment before he completes his own, so that he may make any final changes he may deem necessary."

"True," said Locke. He looked up into sky, shielding his eyes. "Could also be that he wanted to wait 'til the sun was a little higher, so it wouldn't be in his men's faces."

"Mayhaps," remarked Roose, "though mayhaps also that arming and deploying eighty thousand men is a small miracle unto itself. We only have half that number." He uttered those last words with little emotion, and certainly no fear or concern. Roose Bolton was not afraid of much on the battlefield; he trusted that the men of the Dreadfort would persevere, as they had before. He trusted in the king; Stannis was a man Roose could admire - like Ned in many ways, with all of his strengths and few of his compassions or any other weaknesses. And above all, he trusted in...

 _Boom_.

The shot echoed out like a clap of thunder. Roose heard several horses whiny and neigh. Then there were several more booms.

Roose knew these sounds well by now. He looked south, and saw several plumes of smoke rising from where the right wing of the infantry were standing.

"We're attacking already?" asked Locke, confused.

"Of course," muttered Roose. He looked to the west. He could see, along the horizon, small plumes of dirt and smoke arise wherever shot struck the ground, accompanied by small explosions in the air where air-burst shells had detonated. At this distance, it was too difficult to say what impacts any of these were having upon Renly's host, but Roose had lived through the Red Fork, and could imagine. "Radio!" he commanded.

The radioman grunted and presented it before the Dreadlord. The radio came alive with the sound of chatter.

"Lord Stark," asked the unmistakable voice of the king, "what is the meaning of this? I gave no order to commence the attack."

"Your Grace," replied the voice of Ned, also on the radio, "you must forgive my son, but he thought to reward your brother's tardiness with an opening round of shot. I believe Renly means to encircle us. In which case, we must attack now, while they are still getting ready."

Stannis said nothing more; Roose imagined that he either must be furious at Robb's impertinence, or carefully considering the new strategy the Starks were proposing. Or both.

* * *

 **Brienne**

"Your Grace," asked Lady Brienne, astride her courser.

"Yes, Lady Tarth?" replied Queen Margaery, from atop her own mount, a pristine white mare, well groomed and with perfumed mane.

"Please forgive me if I be so bold as to ask," continued Brienne, "but... you are not too concerned to be out here, on the battlefield?"

"Not at all," smiled Queen Margaery, looking to her left, to the King, "I have my husband and his Rainbow Knights to protect me." She turned back to look at Brienne. "And beside that, I have been told that these days it is not only men who are making the battlefield their domain."

Brienne looked ahead. The group of them - herself, the King and Queen, Lord Tyrell, and the rest of the Rainbow Guard - were marching together safely well at the rear, with the reserve, and a good half mile behind the main infantry line, where Lord Tarly was in overall command. The men of the Reach and Stormlands both formed, in all, a solid and unbroken line of men and horse both, some two miles in length, and enlarging itself even further by the minute - it was Renly's plan that, once all the men were fully deployed and ready in formation, that they would stretch some four miles, from the left flank in the north at one end, all the way down to the right flank at the southern end. There was simply no way that Stannis could ever hope to match a line of this length with only half the manpower, and his smaller force would simply be surrounded as Renly's own left and right wings wheeled inward to wrap themselves around him.

There was a rumbling, like thunder in the distance, though the sky was for the most part sunny and devoid of cloud. Brienne had never heard anything like it, though evidently the King had, for her first thought was immediately to look to him and the Queen to make sure of their safety, and the look on his face was not one of confusion, but cold and stark recognition.

"Cannon fire," murmured the King, who then looked to his Queen. "Worry not, my love, for we are still outside of their range."

"We are, but what of the men?" asked the Queen.

Brienne strained to hear more, though the thick steel helm she wore restricted what she could hear from further away. These "cannons", like a "fire-arm" she was told but bigger and carried on wheels - there must have been many of them, for there was another crack every few seconds, adding its voice to the thunderous choir sweeping over the land. And they were accompanied by other sounds too - whistlings in the air, like that of an arrow, along with distant crashes and thuds. She could hear these faint sounds reverberating through the tight space between her head and the steel walls of her helmet, and it was difficult to tell from where exactly were these noises coming from.

She looked ahead; the infantry line directly in front of them was standing still as they had before the rumbling started, seemingly oblivious to anything at all. She looked to the left, then to the right. There must have been some commotion going on somewhere along the line, but it was impossible to see or tell from this distance.

The rumbling and crashing droned on for several minutes, but the King's party, the reserve, as well as the wall of men ahead of them all remained still. And then, abruptly, she saw and heard a commotion along the front line, heard shouts and trumpets being blown, saw flags being waved, and then thousands of men in unison raised their shields and began marching forwards, their boots and clogs and sandals and other assorted footwear pounding the ground into mud and shaking it like a small tremor.

"He's advancing," muttered the King, "Tarly's ordered an advance."

"Shall I ride to him and report back his intentions?" declared Ser Emmon.

"No, we have dedicated messengers for that," said Renly. "Tarly should already be sending one now."

Sure enough, Brienne beheld the sight of a lone horseman emerging from the throng at the rear of the main line, and racing back towards where they were standing. As he neared, Brienne noted the House Tarly sigil he displayed.

"Your Grace," addressed the rider, "news from the front. Lord Rowan in the north and Lord Hightower in the south report that their forces have come under assault by... lightning and brimstone and other witchcraft from the skies."

"Cannonfire," muttered the King, mildly annoyed, "I've spoken of these devices with Lords Rowan and Hightower before, they should know it is no witchcraft but the work of men."

"Spoken with them, aye, but not experienced," said the Queen. "To read or hear about some mystical device from a foreign land must be one thing; to actually be subjected to its mighty power in person is another. They must be terrified out of their heads right now."

Renly turned back to the messenger. "We should be out of their range; I specifically instructed Lord Tarly to assemble our banners no less than a mile from the enemy. We had these grounds surveyed by our scouts."

"My humble apologies, Your Grace," answered the messenger, hanging his head, "I... I am only relaying what I was instructed to tell you."

"Then ride back and tell Lord Tarly that I am ordering him to cease his advance, and hold," commanded Renly. "Is that understood? Hold until our right and left flanks are in the positions we had discussed beforehand. If we must lose a few good men here and there, it will be a price worth paying. Go. Go now and tell Lord Tarly to halt!"

The rider bowed, then turned and galloped off. Brienne looked on as the rider crossed the half-mile of grass and mud between them and Tarly's position, fast as his mount's hooves could carry him, and seemed to disappear among the veritable forest of men and banners in front of them. And throughout all of this, the booming and echoing continued, unrelenting. And the infantry continued to march, the cacophony of crashing footsteps adding to the din. Had the King's order not been received?

"Your Grace," panted the messenger, returning several long minutes later, "my apologies, but Lord Mullendore told me to tell you..."

"Lord Mullendore?" said Renly, "I thought Tarly was in command."

"Yes, Your Grace, he is," panted the rider, "Lord Tarly is indeed in command. But he was preoccupied with commanding the line, and with dispatching orders to all other lords and captains along the front. So instead Lord Mullendore spoke to me on his behalf."

"But you did tell him what my orders were?" asked the King.

"Yes, Your Grace," said the rider, "I did, and Mullendore promised to forward your commands to Tarly."

"And...?" asked Renly, visibly anxious as he looked up. The infantry line was still moving forwards, slowly but surely, the individual men and banners shrinking smaller and smaller from view with each passing second.

"He told me to tell you that Lord Tarly told him that Lords Rowan, Hightower, and Estermont told him that they in turn were told by all the lords and captains under their command that..."

"Too many people are telling too many other people far too many things," snapped Ser Loras. "Just spit it out!"

"What exactly is Tarly doing?" grumbled Renly. "Just him, ignore the others."

"Your Grace," sputtered the messenger, exasperated, "Lord Tarly decided that if we wait out here any longer, we'll be like sitting pigs, waiting for the slaughter. He's ordered the infantry to advance and engage. He... was under the impression that he held direct command of the main line."

"Then ride back and tell him to halt," ordered the King, "now! Tell him that he must hold and wait until Ser Garlan and Lord Estermont are in the positions we had agreed upon. And do not come back here until you have spoken these words to Randall Tarly himself. Not Mullendore or Fossoway or Dickon Tarly, or Rickon or Chickon or whatever his son's name is. To Randall Tarly! Have I made myself abundantly clear?"

The rider nodded and rode off yet again. Brienne watched him ride off, but could hear quite clearly, even under her helm, her beloved Renly begin to lose his composure.

"Damn Lord Tarly," swore the King to himself, unaware that his Rainbow Warriors could hear him, "damn him and my brother and that mangy Stark boy to all Seven Hells!"


	16. A Death To Knighthood (Part 5)

**A Death To Knighthood (Part V)**

 **Roose**

To the south, the artillery they had placed at the north and south wings of the infantry line was still pounding away, and Lord Bolton could hear the whistling of shells over his head, and see them detonating ahead of them. His horse whinnied, unsettled a little at the sound and smell - although the Northmen had taken great pains to acclimate their horses to the new weapons, they were still, at the end of the day, skittish creatures. He could imagine what those on the other end of the field, having never faced gunpowder before, were experiencing.

Up ahead, he could see them; towering banners of the Reach and Stormlands, of the Tyrells themselves, of the Varners and Meadows, of Morrigens and Bucklers, and a dozen other lesser houses he could not recall, and beneath them, the brave men gripping them, atop gallant steeds. They just stood there, not moving, but still dominating the horizon. Renly was said to have had some twenty thousand horse on him in total, and assuming that they went for an equitable distribution of that number across both flanks, that meant that perhaps as many as ten thousand mounted men at arms now faced against him - him and a meager three thousand, and another three thousand behind them, the reserve cavalry under the direct command of the King himself. They would have to move quickly.

Roose turned around. "The King," he commanded. The radioman humbly obliged, and handed the speaking part, the so-called mouth-piece. "Your Grace," began Roose, speaking into the radio. "There appears to be a confusion of sorts; they are not moving at all."

"Understood," replied the King, bluntly, "Lords Redfort, Serrett, and Mallery reported as much."

Those were the three other commanders spearheading the right flank together with Roose. Lord Horton Redfort, whom Roose already knew well from before and knew he could count upon, for before his untimely death, Domeric had spent three years squiring with the Redforts and had even come to call Lord Horton's sons as brothers to him - there was not much that could move the Dreadlord, but seeing Lord Horton again had.

Then there was Lord Gareth Mallery, the brother of the late Lord Lothar Mallery, who had fallen last year in King's Landing, whilst helping Ned and his girls escape from Joffrey's clutches; the Mallerys were not a particularly large house, but their history of duty and able leadership was impeccable, and for that Lord Gareth had been given command of the Crownlands horses.

And then there was the young Lord Marshwyn Serrett, who had succeeded his father after being felled on the Red Fork. Marshwyn still harbored great animus towards the Starks for this, though, for now, the peace treaty and Lord Tyrion's declaration for Stannis would keep him in line. Though Roose still had to wonder if this was the reason Serrett and the Westerlands cavalry had found themselves placed here right in the frontline. He could still feel the gash across his arm he had taken on the Red Fork (the Sky-People had offered him their medicine to make it like new, but he had declined), and thought how curious it was that now he would have lions guarding his side.

"Your Grace," asked Lord Horton Redfort, his voice also over the radio, though twinged with, so Roose heard, a sense of doubt and confusion. As a Valelord, he had only just joined the Kingshost, and was still getting used to this magic device that had been given to him. Regardless, he continued: "shall we, uh, press the attack?"

There was a pause, though Roose could have sworn he heard the familiar sound of teeth being ground.

"Yes," spoke the King. "Redfort, charge those Varners on the rightmost wing. Bolton; you take the center, where the green is thickest. Serrett, aim for the Morrigens. Mallery, you shall take on the Caswells. To all of you: run them through, then fall back, regroup, and charge again."

"Your Grace, what of the cannons?" chimed in Lord Mallery, still as yet wary of trusting the new weapons after what they had done to his brother. "Are they, uh, any threat to us?"

"I will instruct Lord Stark to cease his barrage and redirect it elsewhere," declared the King. "But now we attack, now, before they have time to reorganize."

Roose returned the mouthpiece to the radioman, and then turned to Locke. "Now. Sound the charge."

Locke nodded and then, in turn, barked an order to all the other men around them. And then at once, bugles were blown and flags were waved with great vigor, and the signal was given. And though Roose could not hear it over the great clamor raised by his own men, he imagined that trumpeters and pipers in Redfort's and Serrett's and Mallery's sections too were issuing similar commands.

And all at once, like they were all cogs in a single well oiled machine like those of the Sky-People, the riders of the Dreadfort spurred their rides onward, from halt to a trot. And then, after having traversed some ways, into full gallop. The attack was on; there would be no backing down now.

Up ahead, the swarm of green grew, until Reach and Stormland banners filled his sight, and Roose could even see the expressions on some of the men whose helms were open-faced. Many of the knights just stood there, milling about, and clearly confused as to what was going on. Some of the knights among them decided to counter-charge, and broke formation to rush at the enemy swarm now descending upon them without having been given the order to do so. Several hundred of these emerged from the stagnant mass to meet them, but they were swiftly swept aside by the surge of three thousand charging horses in full gallop.

And then, all of a sudden, one army crashed into another, and all the hells of both the Old Gods and the New broke loose.

Lances smashed against breastplates. Swords clanged against shields. Horses screamed and reared up, sometimes throwing off their riders. Men shouted and struggled and slashed and stumbled. It was complete and utter chaos. Banners of Bolton pink mixed into the sea of Highgarden and Meadows ones, like a cloud of blood dispersing into a stagnant green lake. And like blood in the water, the sharks were sure to follow soon enough.

Lord Bolton kept himself in the middle of it, surrounded by his command staff, while around him, the men of the Dreadfort and several other Northern houses cut and slashed and hacked their way forward, teaching these flowers well to fear the flayed man.

The knights of House Tyrell and Meadows had been taken completely by surprise and overwhelmed by the charge of the Dreadfort horse, but only at first. For every enemy they slew, another one was standing right behind, ready to take his place. Roose could tell that by now their charge had lost all momentum, for they had stopped moving forward, and the space between each horse grew increasingly smaller and more difficult to maneuver around in, as the orderly charge quickly disintegrated into a frenzied melee.

"Fall back," he commanded, turning to his lieutenants, "fall back, I say!" They would pull themselves away from this mess, reform, and then charge again.

One of the trumpeters nodded, raised his bugle to his lips, and was about to blow the retreat when, in the brief moment that his attention was taken elsewhere, one of the Meadows men was able to charge up to him and drive a sword into his neck.

 _That's not good_ , thought the Dreadlord to himself.

Locke immediately struck back, avenging the bugler's fate by running the attacker through with his own sword. Roose, meanwhile, spun around quickly, looking for another trumpeter, though this effort proved to be in vain as all around had turned to a whirlpool of madness. "Fall back!" he took to shouting, turning quite purple in the face, "FALL BACK!" But try as he might, even the Dreadlord could not make himself heard above the clatter.

One particularly large man-at-arms in Highgarden colors smashed through his guards and charged Roose directly. They were so close that the Dreadlord could only barely try to pull away in time; his ride uttered a bloodcurdled scream as the lance punctured its neck. Roose, thinking quickly, dismounted before he could get pinned under the dying beast's bulk.

And no sooner had his feet touched the ground when he grabbed onto the shaft of that lance, and pulled with all his might. The big knight lost his balance, and fell off his own horse. Roose let go, reached down for the dagger sheathed inside his left gauntlet, and in one motion pulled it out, and plunged it into the knight's exposed neck, right in the chink where he knew armor was at its weakest. House Bolton's blades were always sharp.

 _The radio!_ , thought he, and looked around for it wildly. He found it a second later, laying smashed and half underneath the mass of the radioman's horse.

"My liege, look out!" shouted Locke. Roose looked up just in time to see another Reachknight upon him. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Locke charge forward, gripping tightly with both hands one of the flayed man banners that had been discarded, its bearer presumably slain; its tip ended in a gnarly, serrated spearpoint (of course it was; it belonged to House Bolton), and now Locke. The horse bucked backward as Locke jabbed the banner at it, depositing its rider onto the ground.

Roose looked to Locke, and Locke returned his gaze. They were now standing back to back, right in the thick of it, Roose with sword and dagger, Locke defiantly clutching the flayed man banner. They were surrounded.

"Our blades our sharp?" asked Locke.

It never occurred to Roose that he might perish on the fields of battle. Not even on the Red Fork, when that Lannister bannerman had slashed him. But he did have to smile. "Our blades are sharp, Lieutenant."

"Our blades are sharp!" shouted Locke, stabbing and thrusting his makeshift spear at the nearest Reachknight.

 _AAAAAAAWWWWWWWWOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!_

The long, slow blast of a trumpet was followed shortly thereafter by the shouts of men and the thundering of hooves, and even through the throng surrounding them, Roose caught a glimpse of another wave of riders approaching. They were riding in from the north, this time, based on where the sun was in the sky.

Locke and Roose stared at each other in confusion. Who were they? The Redforts? Roose squinted and glimpsed, through the chaos, a new banner: a flaming hearted stag. Stannis.

It seems that while Bolton and the others had charged the Tyrells' northern flank and had kept them tied up facing to the east, the King had ordered the reserve to go around in a wide arc, around the rear of the firstline, and then charge into the fray from the north. With his radio broken, Roose never heard any of these orders being given.

* * *

 **Brienne**

Something had gone awry. The King sat astride his destrier, watching the battle unfold with growing trepidation. For all these years that she had known him, Renly was always calm and composed, always knew what was just the right thing to say or do in every situation. And yet now, for the first time that she could ever recall, she could see within him a growing sense of dread. He did not like what he was seeing at all.

For hours now, there had been more riders rushing back and forth between their position, still keeping back a half-mile behind the line, and Tarly's command at the center of it, each of them keeping them abreast of the situation as it unfolded. From the sound, and look, of it, Lord Randall Tarly was keeping the infantry holding steadily, and even continuing to advance forward. But what was going on at the flanks was far less clear.

Jumbled messages and mixed signals were reaching Lord Tarly (and, through him, the King) from every corner as to what exactly was transpiring at the furthest ends of their deployment, well over a mile north and south of them. News of the dreaded cannonfire wreaking havoc among the men, of solid iron balls falling out of the sky and decapitating men and horse both, or hails of little slivers of jagged metal raining down on men and cutting them to pieces. Some men had panicked at such bloodletting, and had forsaken their oaths to their king and fled, though others held grimly firm.

Then there were the reports of the cavalry skirmishes seemingly unfolding at every corner of the field, as if there were not two but a _dozen_ small battles going on all at once. Stannis, despite having only half their numbers, was on the offensive and striking relentlessly at them with twice the ferocity, charging then retreating then charging again. Lord Estermont and the Queen's elder brother Ser Garlan had been firmly instructed the night before to sit and wait, but now they had seemingly abandoned those commands and were running around the field in circles.

Brienne just did not know what to believe, and what were mere panicked fabrications made in haste. She had been there with the King just last night when he had laid it all out for hers and Ser Loras's ears. It was a foolproof plan, all tidy and orderly, and yet now it was all coming apart at the seams and descending into complete disarray. This was not how the battle was supposed to unfold. This was not how war was meant to be conducted.

"Your Grace!" shouted another rider. Brienne looked and saw another rider approaching them yet again, though this time, she saw that he bore not the red huntsman upon vert of House Tarly, but instead a red fox upon ermine. The sigil of House Florent, whom, she recalled, were all on the southern flank, split with the foot under Lord Hightower's command and the horse under Lord Estermont. If they were coming straight to the King himself, and going behind Lord Tarly's back completely, then something was amiss.

"What is it now?" demanded Renly.

"Your Grace; there's a gap in the line!" the Florent bannerman continued as he rode right up to the King and bowed. "A gap has opened up in the enemy lines! If we move now, we can exploit it before Stannis has time to seal it up again."

"A gap? Are you certain?" said Renly, "explain. I will not risk my forces lightly for a folly."

"Your Grace," explained the messenger, "in the south. The Northern and Riverlands banners are advancing and pushing our right wing back, but our center is holding strong and pushing forward against theirs. Between these two, Lord Hightower spotted a gap opening up in their line, and instructed me to ride to you at once. He... believes it is an exploitable flaw. But we must move now, as they surely will have noticed it by now, and will be racing to fill it in."

"Why did you come straight to me and not to Tarly?" inquired Renly.

"Tarly is far too preoccupied with the center," replied the rider. "Moreover, he has no footmen to spare, nor would they move quickly enough to take full advantage of it. We need horses. We need the reserve."

Renly sat back and rested his chin upon his hand, pondering this plan closely. Of some roughly four columns of banners that made up the reserve, each of roughly a thousand men apiece, they had already sent one north to aid Ser Garlan. "The South flank is where Tywin met his demise," muttered the King to himself. Brienne could read it in his face that he was reluctant to commit any further reserves at this stage of the battle. For the first time, she could see just how heavily the weight of his crown was weighing down upon his furrowed brow.

"Your Grace," implored the rider. "Please, we must, Your Grace. Every minute is another we give the Northmen time to reform their ranks."

Renly sighed, cleared his throat, and spoke, and spoke as a King should, clearly and firm in his conviction. "We will send two columns of horse, one to reinforce Lord Estermont's flank, and one to assault this gap that Lord Hightower speaks of."

"Dear husband?" spoke the Queen, visibly anxious, "do you mean to lead the charge yourself?"

"Worry not for me, my dear," said Renly, calmly, "I am needed here. No, I shall send a champion in my stead to carry my banner."

"Then allow me to be that champion!" spoke up Ser Loras.

"No!" barked Lord Mace, behind them, adamantly, "absolutely not."

"I shall if the King commands it!" replied Loras, "Renly, please, I implore you."

A thought came to Brienne's mind. "Your Grace," she declared, "please, I shall lead them."

"You?" spat Robar, as if in disbelief. "Your Grace, grant me this honor." But Brienne did not care to know anything of what was going on in the mind of Ser Royce, or anyone else around them for that matter. There was only one whose thought mattered to her right now.

"Are you... certain about this?" asked the King, hesitantly.

"Your Grace," she insisted, "I knew, from the moment I answered your call to leave my Sapphire Isle, that this is what I was meant for. And whatever happens, let it be known that House Tarth ever faithfully served our liege lord, our King, even when they had no sons to give."

Renly blinked. "Very well." He turned to face her. "Lady Brienne, take my banner," indicating the three men behind them who carried the King's own banners, the Baratheon stag and the Tyrell rose both, embroidered with gold thread that gleamed in the sun. Renly continued, pointing to the messenger, "take the second column and follow this man back to Lord Hightower, and then follow his instructions." He then looked to Robar. "And you, Ser Robar, as you too volunteered, I have an assignment for you as well. Take the third column and make south, and see how you may be of assist to Lord Estermont."

"Is that wise, Your Grace?" cautioned Lord Tyrell, "Lord Royce commands the knights of the Vale down there and..."

"Then I shall have the honor of defeating my father myself," snapped Ser Robar, furious that someone, even of Lord Mace's standing, would _dare_ cast doubt upon his commitment to their King.

Gripping the banner tightly in her hand, Brienne considered it carefully. It felt much heavier than she was expecting.

"Lady Tarth," spoke up Renly.

"Yes, Your Grace?" she asked.

Renly opened his mouth, but then wavered and fell silent, as if unsure of what to say. Then he seemed to catch himself, smiled, clenched his right fist and pounded it upon his left shoulder in solemn salutation. "Ours is the fury!" he declared, "now ride forth, my champion, _Ser_ Brienne Of Tarth!"

If she smiled, he probably did not see too much of it at all under her helmet. Neither would he likely see any tears. So all she felt she could do was lower her head. "I shall not fail you, Your Grace."


	17. A Death To Knighthood (Part 6)

**A Death To Knighthood (** **Part VI)**

 **Robb**

Robb cursed again as his boots sank into mud - the rolling green grasslands had been churned up the pounding of thousands of pairs of feet and mixed with the blood draining away from hundreds upon hundreds of the dead, the dying, and the wounded. And still the battle raged on, still there were plenty more Reachers and Stormlanders that needed to be fought and killed. He was tired, his voice hoarse, and he could just feel it in his bones that the men around him felt the same.

He began to wonder if it had been a mistake to change the plan at the last minute and go on the offensive, rather than wait behind their defenses for Renly to come to them. But then he reminded himself that had they just sat and waited, then Renly might have encircled them. _Might_. Robb had not expected the youngest Baratheon brother to go for such a wide deployment, given that he was still directing his army with flags and trumpets and simple word of mouth (and he had reliable intelligence from the Sky-People that Renly had no radios of his own). So to attempt such a maneuver was an enormous tactical gamble that Robb had not expected the Reachers to take, but now that they had after all, he had to adapt accordingly.

 _Dacey, where are you?_ , he thought to himself, _we've got to close that bloody gap_! He looked to his right, looking north. The stretch between the First Division northernmost units, and the southernmost of the Crownlands banners was large enough that, even from this flat and inopportune vantage point, he could still see clearly the bulk of Renly's center, locked into vicious melee with his. The artillery, meanwhile, continued hammering away, cannonballs bouncing along the ground before smashing right into the ranks of Reach and Stormmen alike, enfilading them.

"Mormont," commanded Robb, looking to his radioman, who swiftly complied. "Dacey," he began, not even bothering with titles anymore, "we're marching too far ahead, why isn't the Third Division keeping pace?"

"Sorry, Robb," came Dacey's answer, "the artillery's shooting across our path. I told Theon to hold, but he's acting like he's his own separate army now. I told him to halt, but he's not listening."

"I will speak to him." Robb checked the radio to make sure the numbers displayed on that Sky-People box matched up with those Theon would be using (the "same frequency" as the Sky-People called it). He then continued: "Brother. Hold your fire, we're trying to reform the line and fill in the gap."

"Brother!" came Theon's response, "we have a clear field of view right into the mass of 'em! It's glorious!"

"Cease firing, damn it!" pressed Robb, "you're going to hit us!"

"Another barrage, Brother," insisted Theon, "look, we're knocking 'em down like a game of bowls!"

"Theon, I swear, on the Old Gods and on your slimy drowned God too," shouted Robb, "if you don't cease firing this very moment, I will cut off your dick and feed it to Grey Wind!" The tone with which these words came out surprised even him; Gods, it must have been that little bit of Bolton blood in him speaking. "I'm telling you now, hold your fire until Dacey's through!"

The silence that followed seemed to suggest that even Theon was taken aback by this sudden outburst. But even if he wasn't, the fact that the guns began to fall silent one by one shortly thereafter showed that at least it had been effective.

Robb was furious, wondering if putting Theon in charge of the cannons had been the wisest move. When they first formed the First Army, all those long months ago, Theon had stayed by his side as one of his command staff, and because Robb chose to command the artillery personally, thus Theon too served with the artillery. But after the Red Fork, after achieving, all by his lonesome, a number of kills with the Gatling that would have put both of his uncles to shame, Theon had quickly grown a close attachment for these weapons, and so had elected to remain with them.

Now, they still had ten Gatlings left in operable condition; those and what little munitions they had left for them had all been assigned alongside the stationary cannons, in order to dissuade any of Renly's cavalry from harassing the vital artillery company. But this whole bloody campaign, from the long march down from Winterfell to get here, to how heavily they had been used on the Red Fork - all of it had taken a hefty toll on the guns, and unfortunately there just had not been time to train their engineers on how to repair and upkeep these guns the way they could with the far simpler Napoleon guns.

That, and then there was also this whole issue of purchasing more munitions. Almost all of their stocks had been used up on the Red Fork, and obtaining more turned out to be difficult for... strange reasons he could not quite understand. To put it mildly, Robb was furious. First they had dragged him back north so that he could speak on The Company's behalf against the Sky-People's government. And then, Lord Daniel had explained that, thanks to some decision made by the UN Security Council, The Company would be forced to cut back on their supplies of Gatling munitions and certain other weapons. Daniel had mumbled something about "not wanting to push their luck with UN watchdogs anymore". Wait, then what was the point of that entire hearing? Had Lady Carson not done her job properly? Robb was so confused by everything - oh, the Sky-People and all their complicated rules and all these little games they were playing.

But then again, trial and error out in the field had shown that the Gatlings were not the be-all and end-all that Robb had initially thought. They were absolutely fantastic at one thing, which was for stationary defense against large formations of densely-packed enemies, that much was true. The cannons, on the other hand, could serve many different roles on the battlefield, from long-range bombardment on the field or during a siege, to short-range anti-infantry thanks to judicious application of canister shot - their range of applicability was really only limited by two things: what types of munitions were available, and their mobility (or, rather, lack thereof). And, more importantly, they cost a fraction of what the Gatlings did, and they were far easier for the First Army engineers to upkeep.

He turned to look back at where the guns had been placed, and could see that now that they had ceased fire, slowly but steadily, the Third Division were advancing, their banners and flags fluttering in the air. They had the First Army engineers up since before dawn, working - preparing barbed wire, sinking stakes into the ground, as well as digging and preparing small earthen mounds to place the cannons upon, so that the barrels would be pointed up into the air at the best possible angle necessary to maximize their range.

The good news was that their preemptive strike seems to have taken their opponents completely offguard and thrown them into disarray. On the far northern end of the field, King Stannis had struck boldly forth and descended upon the Tyrell horse whilst they were still dwaddling around, no doubt still waiting on orders from Renly on what they should do next.

But to the south, it was a different story.

As had been agreed, the Valelords would be in overall command down there. He had met Lord Yohn Royce once before, in Winterfell, when he had visited on his way to see his youngest Ser Waymar off to the Wall, though that was years ago, and nothing compared to the last few weeks he had had to get to know him since departing King's Landing. He appreciated Ol' Bronze Yohn's skill and tactical acumen, even in his greying years, and could see and understand why his Lord Father always spoke so highly of him. But he was very much still a man of his time, wary of all these new "Sky-People weapons" that Robb introduced him to, and reluctant to use the radio even after Robb had given him one and shown him how to use it - now that he thought about it, he had hardly heard Yohn's voice at all today.

At the very least though, it seemed the Valelords were doing what they were meant to do, which was to keep Renly's cavalry on the southern flank tied up. Though they were outnumbered, the men of the Vale were some of the finest in the Realm, and they had with them those Riverlands banners who had fought and survived Lord Tywin, under the command of Lord Mallister. But it was still by no means a straightforward fight, and whoever was in charge of the Stormlands banners there was determined not to let them off easily.

That was when Grey Wind's ears pricked up. He growled.

"What is it, boy?" asked Robb.

The radioman approached him. "Lord Glover wishes to speak to you, Sir!"

With Robb taking some time off from the frontline to oversee the deployment of their reserves, Robbett Glover had taken over direct command of the First Division. Perhaps he meant to inform him of a lull in the fighting, and if so, that would be good, for it would allow them time to swap out exhausted frontliners for fresh troops from the reserve...

"General Stark!" spoke Glover, "be warned! We are seeing large numbers of horsemen assembling just to the northwest of my position."

Robb froze. He looked around him. The men of the Third Division were still marching forward, in their neat but separate squares. No time to turn the entire division on a dime and form a complete line.

There was only one thing to do.

"Squares!" shouted Robb, "form squares! Third Division, squares! Repulse cavalry!" He turned to the radio. "Dacey! Be warned, Glover's reported cavalry moving in on the gap. Have the right wing of the division form squares. Now!"

"You 'eard the general, form squares!" shouted the captain nearest to him, "Squares! Prepare to repulse cavalry!"

The order was carried further down the line with cries of "squares!" and blasts of trumpets, and the effect was immediate, like shouting "fire!" in a crowded inn. Robb signaled for his staff, his radioman and his standard-bearers, to follow him, and ran for the nearest square.

* * *

 **Roose**

Since he had lost his mount in the first charge, one of the other Dreadfort men dismounted and offered his to the Dreadlord as a replacement. Roose climbed on, and took a good, long look at all that was unfolding around him.

The battle was still raging, but now some distance away as the enemy was pushed further back, and he was pleased to see that at the very least, regardless of what had happened to him, the men of the Dreadfort had conducted themselves well and with zeal, continuing to fight on even after their liege lord had fallen, their lofty pink banners now stained in deep crimson and blackish red. The King's flanking maneuver had no doubt taken a toll on their enemy, and as long as they kept pressing them back and hammering them repeatedly, the Reachmen and Stormlanders would have no time to reform themselves and counter-charge.

With his radio destroyed, Roose had no way of knowing what else was transpiring at other ends of the field, though he could see, when he looked south, what appeared to be a solid unbroken line of the First Army foot, under Lord Ned himself, advancing forward, making a fine mince out of the Reachmen.

"My Liege," offered Lieutenant Locke, offering him a steel canteen sloshing with water. All this fighting was tiring and straining, but regardless, Roose declined the offer; the sight and satisfaction of all this bloodshed would sate his thirst for now.

A blast of trumpets sounded, heralding the arrival of a large column of horse. Roose looked up to see the King himself approaching, flanked by his standard-bearers and command staff, and bowed slightly.

"Lord Bolton," declared Stannis, riding right up to him, "I thought you had fallen."

"My radio was crushed, Your Grace," he explained, simply.

If the King had any misgivings or other to say, he never expressed them. Instead, he went directly to the next point. "It appears Lord Renly is sending his reserve to reinforce the south flank."

"Aye, Your Grace," replied Roose. He could see where this was going.

"We're going to move now," declared the King, "make straight for Renly whilst his reserves are tied up on our south. Strike him when he is least expecting it. It shall not be easy; if I know him well enough, he will have surrounded himself with his finest knights. But we will charge regardless, and we will catch him offguard. Are you with me?"

Roose stared at him for a moment, confused. Charge, right now, directly at their king? Right around the back of their entire army, across a mile or more? What he now asked for was something you would expect more from his late elder brother! But he could also see what answer the King was expecting. And beside that, House Bolton had a long and hard-earned reputation that needed to be upheld. He replied: "The men of the Dreadfort stand ready to end this pretender king's claim once and for all."

The King, his face flat and expressionless as ever, nodded - that was about as amicable a gesture as one could expect from a man who never smiled. He then turned to face the rest of his cohorts: "Men of the North, of the West, of the East. Of the Riverlands and the Crown, and others who keep your vows..." The men looked on intently, as the King paused for breath, in eager anticipation of what came next. But the King spoke simply, starkly, and to the point: "Men, come with me... and TAKE THEIR KING!"

"STANNIS!" chanted the knights of the Crownlands, raising their arms and banners high, "STANNIS, KING!"

* * *

 **Brienne**

Up ahead, straight to the east, Brienne beheld the solid line of the backs of Hightower's men, stubbornly trudging forward through the mire, even as the relentless pounding away from those dreaded cannons decimated their number. But to the southeast, aye, there was indeed a breakage in the line - not a complete gap, no, but it was an area where she could see that the enemy lines were far thinner and spaced apart. Only a few stragglers she could see, a few disparate groups of men rushing about to fill in the gap. A thousand horses throwing their weight against it would surely break it... as it were right now, at that moment, for every minute they waited was another minute the enemy had time to pull their infantry into place. The time was now or never.

She turned around. The horses whinnied and pawed the ground, restless, knowing as animals somehow always do that something was up. Atop their backs, men in all manner of armor, bearing all manner of weapons, looked to her. Though she could not see many of their faces beneath those cold steel helms they wore, she knew all eyes were now trained upon her. And she did not know what to say.

All her life had been leading up to this day. The day she would at last earn her rightful place as any man's equal, lead her King's armies to glory, and forever enter the songs and poems that would be told for many years to come. She could hardly breathe. She felt a child again, a little girl lonely and unloved in Evenfall Hall, living on dreams and hearings of tales of olde. All her life was she ridiculed by others. She tried to be a woman, a true woman - tried to wear dresses and gowns, and dance and sing at feasts, only to be scorned for her appearance and deep voice. It was clear that her path was not that of a lady, but of the warrior, and no matter how much contempt and resentment found her at every step along the way, she never stopped dreaming of greater things to come.

And now she was here. It was a wonderful feeling, like how she had felt the day she had triumphed at the tourney at Bitterbridge and joined the Rainbow Knights. Or how she felt whenever her King was courteous and appreciative of her in front of the others. At these times she felt she that for once was not looked upon as some object of derision, but as their equal - a true knight.

She did not know what to say, or, if she did, if they would even hear it. If she spoke for too long or said the wrong thing, it would ruin this moment for her, and for others too, and especially for her King whom she knew now depended on her. So, instead she decided to keep it simple and direct. It was the thought that counted, after all. Clutching King Renly's stag and rose banner tightly in her hand, she thrust it straight up into the air, let the sun gleam off of gilded threads, and shouted, loud as she could: "FOR RENLY!"

"FOR RENLY!" came the unanimous cries and chants of the men.

"FOR RENLY!" she shouted again, then kicked her spurs into her mount's sides, driving him forward into a gallop.

* * *

 **Robb**

Grey Wind dashed right up to the edge of the nearest square, and Robb instinctively followed him; the men there recognized them and stepped aside, opening up a passage for them. Once they were safely within, they closed up again. But by the Gods, was it tight right inside the center of it - some 250 or so men were packed into just this one square alone, some four ranks deep on each side, presenting an unbroken fence of spearpoints (but no bayonets - turns out this was one of the pike-only companies).

Robb looked around him wildly; he could hardly see over the shoulders and heads and steely grey helmets of the men surrounding him, so he could not see the enemy until they would be almost upon them. He could, however, hear the galloping, the furious pounding of hooves upon the ground, and could see the dust they were throwing up as they charged.

"Ready!" shouted one of the captains at the men, "present!"

Robb heard the cracks of volleys from two of the other squares nearby, a mix of rifle and pike. Many horsemen would be felled, but the rest charged on, and then they were upon them.

They did not charge the squares directly, but instead swarmed and swirled around them, like a raging river of steel and savagery raging around rocks of grim determination and fortitude. Skittish creatures they were, Robb reminded himself - you could lead a horse to water, but instinct always had the final say on whether it would drink or not, and if given the choice between charging into a solid wall of sharp pointy things, and into an empty space devoid of such things, the creature generally chose the latter. Certainly, the noise, the smoke, even the smell of gunpowder being ignited was having a visibly unsettling effect on some of the horses he could see from here.

For several long minutes, this state of affairs continued, the knights running around the squares in circles. Some would ride right up to the men and stab and slash furiously with lances and swords, but the square held firm, the defenders stabbing and thrusting back with their pikes, to stave off the attackers. Robb wondered how the other squares were holding; he could not see them over the swarms of riders that surrounded them, and only his and Dacey's had a radio.

He could, however, hear in the distance a familiar clattering winding up again. Some of the knights must have tried to continue racing onwards to Theon's artillery position; there, they were sure to run afoul of the Gatlings and of the wire.

A great cry, louder than the others, grabbed his attention. His head shot to the left to glimpe a large horse having gotten itself gored on one of the pikes; its rider dismounted and almost immediately threw himself right into the throng. The pikemen nearest him furiously stabbed and jabbed back at him, but in vain. He either dodged each thrust, or else the spearpoints would glance off the rounded edges of his thick, shining blue armor. The two pikemen standing nearest to him dropped their pikes and instead reached for their swords for melee, but they were too late; the blue knight was upon them, cutting them down where they stood.

When he was mounted, that was one thing, but now that he was on the ground, standing without any aid or advantage, Robb could truly appreciate the size of the opponent now facing him. He was the largest knight Robb had ever seen, easily as tall as any of the Umbers, and for a moment, he was reminded of that Mountain of House Clegane. Except unlike Ser Gregor, whom Robb had only seen in person after the battle and after he had been slain (supposedly, by the Lions' own sellswords over a payment dispute, though Robb sometimes wondered if that was only part of the story), the knight now facing him was very much alive and real and ready to kill him.

Robb looked on with growing trepidation as the blue knight slashed and stabbed his way through the ranks of pikemen, besting every man who dared stand in his way. By now, he was far too close for the pikes, forcing the men standing nearest to him to have to go to sword, but even these proved in vain, for he was like the Mountain and the Kingslayer all in one, a killing machine rending men apart. Robb blinked in disbelief. The blue knight, all by his lonesome, was tearing the square completely apart.

Without thinking, Robb drew his sword, clasping the leather-bound hilt tightly with both hands. By his side, Grey Wind snarled and bared his teeth at the knight, ready to pounce, as if he were saying: _we can do this, you and I! Come on Robb, let us take down this behemoth, the two of us! Together! We bested the Kingslayer; this blue monster shall be no different! Come on! Let's do this!_

The blue knight's helm was fixed on him, and Robb knew, somehow, that he had recognized him. And he recognized him back - of course, he was one of Renly's Kingsguard. Only the finest knights in all his Realm would Renly pick for his Guard. His heart pounded. His hearing went dull, and for a moment, all he could hear was heavy breathing - though he was not certain if it was his, or Grey Wind's, or the knight's.

And then, he felt his fingers loosen their grip. His right hand let go... and instead reached for his belt. More specifically, for the heavy leather pouch that hung from it, where he had been keeping something for all of these last few months.

He grasped it tightly, feeling its weight in his hand, still as clean and polished as the day Lord Kovacs had first presented it to him all those long months ago as a gift, a token of friendship between Winterfell and Autumn's Frontier. Its handle was crafted out of shining steel and polished wood, the Stark Direwolf elegantly carved into it by the Sky-People's machines.

On the world from whence it came, this weapon was known as the "Colt Nineteen Eleven", and other weapons of its kind reportedly had a long and distinguished career in the army of one of the mightiest of all the Sky-People's many empires. The weapon weighed heavily in his hands; his thumb found the safety. And then, in one motion, he yanked it out of its holster, pointed it, and squeezed the trigger.

Time seemed to grind to a halt; as if he could see the hammer being pulled back, then snapping forward. The slide slid backwards, ejecting the spent cartridge, and the whole device kicked back with such recoil that his arm snapped back and he almost dropped it. A flash, and a puff of smoke, and then the big knight just stopped. Just stopped, standing there, with a small part of his blue breastplate dented inward, and a small, circular hole punched clean through the center of it.

Grey Wind yelped, as if completely surprised by what his master had done.

But Robb did not stop. Gripping the weapon with both hands now, he aimed, and pulled the trigger again. And then again.

The knight groaned and fell to his knees, three holes in his chest, rivulets of blackish red blood in sharp contrast against gleaming polished blue.

Robb was dazed, oblivious to all that was going on around him, but he kept that gun pointed at his foe, gripped with both hands now, and cautiously stepped towards him. The knight was lying crumpled where he had fallen upon the mud, wheezing and gasping for breath. "R-r-r-r- _renly_..." he groaned with his dying breath, though Robb noticed something odd - his voice was deep, yes, and yet still... undeniably... _feminine_?

He grabbed the blue helm by the bright plume of colored horsehair that protruded from it, and pulled it off, and beneath it, he saw a face. A face ugly and coarse, its nose bearing the marks of multiple breakings over the years, its lips fat and swollen, but with eyes of the deepest blue, beautiful and innocent even in death, just blankly staring back right at him, accusingly. A woman's face.

Beside him, Grey Wind howled.


End file.
